What A Tender World That Would Be
by TheBookshelfDweller
Summary: When Sherlock returns, there are explanations to be given, understandings to be proven, changes to be accepted. In the end, things might seem to go in circles, but every time the cycle repeates they find themselves standing in a place very similar, but slightly altered. Because change is inevitable, the world allows for no exceptions. If it did, what a tender world that would be.
1. Prologue

**Author's note:** **So, here it is - a multichapter!**

**Firstly, I have to thank L., once again, for reading and re-reading and giving suggestions, and just being incredibly patient with me and this story.**

**Secondly, this story will be updated every day, seeing as I have it all done and wrapped up, so I see no point in dragging out the updating process. If a chapter is short or I feel two chapters are best read in continuity, then I will upload two. There will be 12 chapters, plus a prologue and an epilogue.**

**To begin with, I'm posting the prologue (which is really just a snippet) and the first two chapters, because I feel they are best read together.**

**I can't even describe how much joy and pleasure writing this fic brought to me, so I hope it will be just as enjoyable to read :)**

**If you prefer complete suspence, I suggest you skip straight to the fic now... If not, then I just want to say that, although there is certainly no lack of angst in this fic (well...it's mine, afterall), it will end on a lighter note. Originally I planned to end it differently, but I simply couldn't, mostly because it broke my heart and because people in this fandom are already served angst on a daily basis, so I didn't really think I needed to contribute to that ;).**

**The story will eventually contain Johnlock, however, there will be nothing explicit really, so no worries if it's not really your thing.**

**Well, for now that's all. Oh wait, it's not.**

**A disclaimer - if I were Steven Moffat, Sherlock would be an all-year-round show. If I were Mark Gatiss I would be studying drama. If I were Sir Arthur Connan Doyle, I'd be sporting a dashing mustache. But it's not and I'm not, and thus I don't own Sherlock!**

**Now it's all. Enjoy your reading! :)**

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He can already see all the tell-tale signs. The tensing of upper-body muscles, further tightening of fist, a breath being sucked in and released through the nose – last (futile) attempt at maintaining self-control and calming down -, lips pressed into a harder line, upper and lower teeth grating lightly against each other. They are the signs of a decision being made. In the fragment of a moment that it takes him to observe all this, Sherlock finds himself surprised by the words that flash through his mind, unannounced.

"_Somebody loves you. If I had to punch that face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth, too."_

The last word barely finishes resonating in his mind, echo of a voice that isn't his, when the fist connects with his face, smashing his lips sideways against his teeth, delivering a blow to the line of his dentition, top two knuckles catching his nose in the process.

_What would you make of this then, Miss Adler?_


	2. Dulce et decorum est pro diliges mori

**Chapter 1: Dolce et decorum est pro diliges mori**

Admittedly, the reunion doesn't go as he would have hoped.

He expects the punch, although he partly hopes to avoid it. Still, if punching Sherlock is what John needs to resolve whatever emotion is causing him trouble, Sherlock is more than willing to endure the short unpleasant sensation such an action is surely bound to inflict upon him. So, he bares the punch stoically, and stands still under the onslaught of a rather impressive stream of curses.

What he does not expect, is John's obstinate refusal to let him explain his actions. He doesn't really get much further than _"Moriarty" _and "_snipers"_, before he is abruptly interrupted by John's adamant "_No_". It is short and clipped, and the vibrations that form its sound serve as a signpost for Sherlock, telling him which John Watson is standing before him at the moment. It's not John Watson – the friend, nor John Watson – the doctor. As vivid and as forceful as a white arrow on a blue tin plaque at the side of a road, one that indicates direction, the "_No_" indicates that he is faced with John Watson – the soldier. _Captain_ John Watson. The "_No" _is not a plea – it's an order. It is refusal of Sherlock's explanation, of his reasons and motives. It is refusal of Sherlock himself.

If it were John-the-friend or John-the-doctor standing not two metres away from him, angry and incredulous, he could appeal to his emotional side. To his empathy, to his _heart. _But John-the-soldier functions differently. The army is a place of discipline, and not emotion. There is a hierarchy to be honoured, and in order to do so, one's personal feelings must come second. This John knows how the hierarchy works, knows what is required in order for a mission to be successful. He also knows that, in this instance, he ranks higher in the pecking order. _Captain _John Watson. _Just _Sherlock Holmes. John is the commanding officer, and he commands "_No". _It is precedence based on some indefinable merit, one earned through pain and suffering (isn't all military merit earned that way?). John ranks higher in the hierarchy of emotional distress, shiny and decorated with endless stripes and medals. Distinguished Service Order, awarded for meritorious or distinguished services of officers of the army during wartime, usually in direct combat (_when you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the battlefield – _direct combat, indeed); Queen's Commendation for Bravery, awarded for bravery entailing risk of life (earned repeatedly and undeniably – but what about bravery entailing risk of heart? What medal is awarded for that?). John Watson, Captain of Grief. Well, maybe this particular army allows for _some _feelings – anger, fury. Still, to try to appeal to John's sympathy would be a waste. The harrowing hierarchy is brutal and unforgiving. Discipline is paramount to staving off devastation. This military campaign they are involved in does not allow for any sentiment beyond rage, so, when the soldierly "_No"_ is sounded, Sherlock abates his attempts to justify his actions, because he knows that his plan to make John see _why_ he had to stop Moriarty will be futile. He is outranked and given an order, and for what may easily be the first time in his personal history, Sherlock Holmes obeys.

By that time, there is another person standing the doorway that connects the dining hall and the lobby of the restaurant, lingering on the edge of their private battle; a civilian toeing the Green Zone line. He most certainly didn't account for _her_ in any of his theories. _Mary_. Mycroft had told him that John has found someone, w_arned_ him that this was not just a casual affair, but still, he was never seriously worried. John needs the life they once shared as much as Sherlock does. Everything else can only be categorized as a distraction, a diversion designed to keep him occupied until that life is made available again. He knows about the engagement, the knowledge being courtesy of Mycroft, _again, _(oh, how he despises the use of _Mycroft_ and _courtesy _in the same sentence)_, _but he manages to suppress it (not quite delete).

She stands in the doorway with a pained expression on her face, worry and love etched in criss-cross patterns, and she could easily be standing on a train platform, a century ago, on the edge of another war, beholding with apprehension as her loved one is taken to the front. A soldier's girl. He pays her no heed – she doesn't rank anywhere in the hierarchy, she a non-combatant, out of place among the orders and the discipline and the bullets and the tactics. She abides by different laws and is granted privileges of aid and protection. She is a blemish contaminating his peripheral vision. Majority of his attention is still directed at the man in front of him, who is wearing his war colours.

Sherlock isn't given the opportunity to ask for clemency as John turns around, without another word, approaches Mary and leads her away from the line of fire, arm over her shoulders, out through the door and into the streets of London. _Their_ London, their battlefield. Potential collateral casualties are successfully salvaged, shielded and safeguarded, and Sherlock is left standing in the desolate theatre of war, counting the losses inherited from a battle he was never even given the chance to fight.

He remains immobile for a few more moments, then retrieves his coat from the coat-checker and leaves. As he walks out of the restaurant, the blood on his lip still warm and metallic-tasting, he runs the scene that just took place, against his collection of predictions. No, the reunion is most certainly not among the things that he would qualify as success.

By the time he finishes his musings, he has walked several kilometres away from the restaurant, and even further away from Baker Street. Well, there is no point in returning to the flat, anyway. It's not as if he intends to sleep. There's no one to make him sleep, now is there? The realisation is like a pill on his tongue, bitter and rough, but he swallows it all the same. It grates against the softness of his oesophagus, all the way down his throat and chest. A useless pill, one that cures no ailments, a poisonous pill. Just then, many things and many actions seem useless, ineffective.

He props his collar up, and does the only thing that seems to be of any use at the moment. He continues walking.

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**The title of this chapter is a modification of the title of Wilfred Owen's poem (which in turns is borrowed from Horace's Odes) "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori", meaning "It is sweet and right to die for one's homeland". It was intended as irony regarding WWI.**

**My version translates as "It is sweet and right to die for one's love"**

**Anyway, the next chapter will contain the real reunion and some actual dialogue :)**


	3. The Most Alluring Coulds

**Author's note: This is chapter is one of my favourites, it was rather cathartic to write. Hope you find it equally pleasant :)**

**The title is borrowed from William Wordsworth's same-named poem.**

**Enjoy!**

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**Chapter 2: The Most Alluring Clouds That Mount The Sky**

It is early, at 5:14 in the morning the Sun is yet to make its appearance, but they sky is already changing colour. If Sherlock were a man who cared for such trivia, perhaps he would have admired the way the sky became a batik-coloured canvas, with ink-hue at one end, turning to denim blue, melting into lavender, which further dissolves into bubble-gum rosy and finally into the unmistakable gold of dawn, right at the eastern horizon. He might be inclined to stop and take in the imposing silhouette of the Tower Bridge – a stark, angular contrast against the empyrean expanse above. But he is not, and he doesn't. Instead, he continues walking, his back turned to the infant sunrays that permeate the mackerel sky, treading the bank of the Thames, west-bound.

He doesn't know what allures him to the park near John's (_John's and Mary's_) apartment, but after a full night of roaming through the dingiest parts of London, he finds himself inexplicably (oh how he hates the word, _inexplicable: incapable of being accounted for or explained_ – it goes against his very nature) drawn to the naked branches and the frozen ground that smells of dead foliage. He is still wearing yesterday's clothes, his crisp white shirt stained red in places where his blood found refuge after escaping his nose and lip, and trickling away down his chin.

He sits down, choosing a bench situated underneath a tree somewhat further away from the trail, back turned to the gravel-covered path and facing the river. It is as good a place to think as any, really, and seeing as he just recently had his shoe soles replaced and doesn't really feel inclined to wear them out in one day, maybe walking is no longer the best possible option.

The tree branches are like the negative of his limbs – long and elegant, smooth bark imitating smooth skin, only dark instead of pale. Adopting his signature thinking position, with the exception of it being vertical instead of horizontal this time, he stares unseeingly at the London panorama that occupies his line of sight. He automatically filters through the input coming from his surroundings, and one particular sound catches his attention. There are footsteps on the path behind him, approaching from his left. As they grow nearer, the sound shifts to that of rubber soles sliding against dewy grass of the green patch that hosts the bench.

He doesn't turn, just lowers his hands to his lap and waits. The bench gives a silent moan as John sits next to him – not retreating to the opposite side, but choosing to sit _next_ to him – close enough for Sherlock to notice the mud on the edge of his corduroy trousers (really, John? _Corduroy_?), yet not close enough to touch. He doesn't turn to look at him, casting a sideways glance instead.

John doesn't look at him either, his eyes seemingly fixed on a particularly fascinating clump of dirt three metres away from where they are sitting, probably unearthed earlier by a bird looking for a meal.

"How do you feel about beige waistcoats?"

The question earns him a confused look from Sherlock, who finally tears his gaze from the still-dark buildings and averts them to John. John turns his head as well, and meets Sherlock's inquisitive stare.

"Possible best man should know the worst about his designated outfit."

The statement, which is a distorted echo of another, similar statement from another time, leads to one of those _very_ rare moments when Sherlock is almost rendered speechless, though not really, and not for long. However, when he does reply, it is in a manner rather different from his usual brusque eloquence.

"Beige waistcoats are...fine."

A nod, and then –

"And what about me? Potential old/new best friends should also know the worst about each other. I complain about housework, prefer my fridge cadaver-free and punch my best friend in the face upon his resurrection."

There are only so many things that manage to take Sherlock Holmes by surprise, and John Watson's repeated refusal to fit his predictions is one of those things. It is for that reason that once again, in the face of this unexpected, calm (why? Why calm?), _almost apologetic_ John Watson, Sherlock's answer is, once again, a sentence as simple as only a few others he has ever spoken.

"That ...is fine, too."

A sigh is expelled – it's a self-reprimanding one – before John retorts.

"No, no it isn't. I would say I'm sorry I punched you, but the truth is that I'm not. It felt good to. But that doesn't mean that it was the ok thing to do. It is highly probable that in the near future I will be sorry for it. But not yet, so, just...erm...I know it's not fine...that I punched you, I know it's not...so, let's just leave it at that, yeah?"

Sherlock just nods, as he studies John's face.

"So...you decided to get an early start today, did you?" John shifts a bit, angling his body towards Sherlock and taking in his appearance. Catching the blood-stained shirt and the rumpled state of its collar, he amends his question, "Or did you just move on from yesterday into today without an end in the first place?"

Sherlock's lips quirk imperceptibly upwards and John takes it as sign of him being pleased with John's observation skills.

"I saw no point in returning to the flat seeing as I would just pace around and drive Mrs. Hudson mad, and I needed to think. Taking a walk seemed like the logical thing to do."

"You walked the whole night?"

"Yes."

"All the way from the restaurant?!"

"Yes."

"But that's on the opposite end of London!"

"I am aware."

"Right."

It is so easy to fall back into the familiar banter, so natural. It could easily be that not a day has passed since they were last arguing about the newest deer-stalker photo in the Daily Mail. It could easily be so...but it's not. The deer-stalker sleeps in a box at the back of John's wardrobe and the Daily Mail has long stopped posting stories about the man who used to wear it. Maybe that's for the best. The thoughts start to take a bitter turn, so John tries to reel them in. His attempts are interrupted by Sherlock's next question.

"And what about you? It's a Saturday, meaning you don't have a shift at the surgery. Why would you decide to take a stroll in the park at this ungodly hour?"

John is aware that Sherlock already knows the answer to his own question, so he is slightly baffled by it being voiced. Sherlock is not the one to ask that which he already has all worked-out, unless it is rhetorical and serving to prove some point of his.

"Um..._I_ wanted to get an early start?" Well, it's worth a shot. Maybe Sherlock will let it slide.

"No. Not likely." Or maybe he won't. "Your face is pale and there are bags under your eyes – eyes which are slightly bleary and rather red from the dilated capillaries. Thus, you either acquired a very insufficient amount of sleep, or no sleep at all. I would say the latter assumption is the more probable one."

"Does that mean you knew I would be here, then? Is that why you came?"

"No. Despite being fairly certain you would not be sleeping tonight, I did not count on you leaving your apartment or seeking out a refuge from your thoughts anywhere where I might encounter you. This meeting was completely accidental."

"So why did you come here?"

"I don't know."

And John can tell that he really doesn't. If either of them were men who believed in faith or providence, they might call it that – a higher force that led them both to the same numb patch of nature among the urban empire of concrete and stone. But they are not, so they don't. Still, whatever the reason, John decides not to question it. He has other, decisively more important and much less esoteric, matters in need of questioning. Matters which interfere with his sleep, ones pertaining to dealing with dead people not being dead.

"I had to think. I tried sleeping, but that was just a waste of time. It felt absurd considering how loud my thoughts were. In the end I went out, so not to wake Mary. I think I understand now how you feel most of the time, I guess. Well, you know... not exactly, but the whole thinking thing and the not sleeping. I get that now."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"And what else do you understand?"

Sherlock knows this part of the conversation is inevitable. From here on, there two possibilities, two futures that offer themselves as options – one with John and one without. Though the latter isn't really a possibility at all, as far as Sherlock is concerned.

"I understand you did what you thought was necessary. I'm not saying I agree it was – there were other ways, Sherlock. There must have been. But I understand that you meant well. There are a lot of things I still don't understand. I think some of them I never will. You will need to explain. I know you tried to do so, yesterday, but I wasn't ready to hear it then. And I think I am still not, now."

Sherlock swallows the words brimming behind his lips – words about _why_ and _who_ and _how_. But mostly _why_. _Why_ seems to be most important.

_Why? Moriarty. Why? Protection. Why? Survival. Why? Sentiment. Why? Love._

"It's going to take time, you know? Forgiving you. I'm not even sure yet which parts of this whole conundrum call for forgiveness. All I know is that I feel angry and I feel like there is something I need to forgive you for, even if, objectively, there is nothing I have the right to feel resentful about. This isn't objective, so yeah...there."

Sherlock tries hard not to get hung upon the use of the continuous tense instead of a conditional – hung upon the fact that forgiveness is something that will definitely take place in the future, _the foreseeable future_, and not just an ambiguous option. He knows his agreement on the matter is inconsequential, but he feels the need to acknowledge his understanding of all that is being said, as well as all that is being left unsaid.

"Alright. When you are ready, I will explain. When do you think that may be?"

"I don't know. Later. Soon."

There is silence once more. It's like cotton - soft, but slightly suffocating. It's saturated with all that has been established, with all the effort that will have to be endured in the weeks and months to come. For now, it's enough.

John clears his throat, observing the slow ascent of the Sun.

"So...beige waistcoats are fine? Does that mean that you'll do it then? Come to the wedding? Be my best man?"

He doesn't dare look at the man next to him until he has finished speaking. When he finally sums up the nerve to do so, he is met with the detective's arcane eyes. For what seems like an endless stretch of small eternities, Sherlock just looks at him. It isn't his usual look, the one used for deductions. This look is softer, somehow, though not much. John is pretty sure he is the only one who could tell the difference, and even that is because he had ample opportunity to observe Sherlock in his many different modes. Still, there is something about it that makes John want to tell Sherlock that it's fine. It's all fine. He doesn't know what exactly is supposed to be fine, but whatever it is he wants Sherlock to know that "fine" is the word to describe it. There is something swimming behind those irises, and John can't make out the exact outlines of it. It's like a catfish swishing around in a muddy pond, low, just above the bottom, stirring up the sludge and hampering a clearer view of its true shape. By the time Sherlock opens his mouth to answer, John is half-expecting an admission, or a revelation, of paradigm-shifting proportions.

"Is Mycroft invited?"

The paradigm remains stagnant. No shifts. No big ones, at least. It's alright. For now, it's enough.

"Yes. He gets to wear a bride's maid's dress – sequenced peach chiffon with a tulle sash. Also, we ordered a separate cake, just for him."

"In that case, I'll be there."

The smiles that crack their lips open are ones that haven't been smiled in quite some time. They smile into the morning, and the sky gains another colour. There might even be a small chuckle, evaporating with moist breaths in the frosty air. Or it might just be the lapping of the river against the embankment. It could be both; maybe the river is laughing for the two men, quietly, because that's the only appropriate way to laugh in a somnolent, pre-dawn world.

"I'm glad."

The Sun is still struggling against the barrier of the skyline, its fingers grappling at it as it works to pull itself up. It is a sight to behold. It is a struggle with a fixed victor. Yet, the Sun is still in the trenches, and the sky may still crumble before it manages to extricate itself from the pull of East's clingy tendrils. Under the ambiguous threat of the unstable sky, there are a few more words that need to be exchanged.

"And, John...Congratulations."

With this, Sherlock's eyes return to the urban vista, so he doesn't see the change in John's smile, as something awfully alike to wistfulness replaces amusement. Wistfulness? That is no way to respond to felicitation. Still, John can't help himself as he wonders what scars their three-year separation has inflicted upon his friend to age him so. It's maturation through experience, and an extremely unpleasant one, at that. He realises that they are both altered, irrevocably. Something about that thought elicits a surge of unaccountable regret. For a moment there is a crack in the sky, making the Sun's triumph questionable.

But this is just human nature, fear of change and longing for constancy. Isn't it? Either way, regret is a barren feeling; no good ever came from it, so what is the point of indulging it now? There, on the edge of a precipice, two words tip the scale and crevice above their heads is mended.

"Thank you."

John is still sitting just far enough for contact to be missing, and Sherlock doesn't make a move to change that. After what feels like both endlessly long and still not long enough, John nods (more to himself than anything else), stands up and walks around the bench, heading back towards the path. Just as a sensation dangerously similar to disappointment threatens to paw at Sherlock's chest, he feels a hand on his shoulder and a thumb rubbing small circles at the nape of his neck, catching a few curls, here and there.

"God, I missed you."

He doesn't know if that statement requires an answer, but playing safe (when did he start _playing safe_?), he provides one, anyway.

"I came back."

"What took you so long? Git." He can hear the smile in John's voice and he knows this time no answer is required. He knows a rhetorical question when he hears one. There will be times for explanations, later in the day, later in the week. Not now. Now is fine. John's hand is still warm and heavy on the skin above his clavicle, in the front, and shoulder blade, in the back. It feels so right and so_, so_ very much like home, that he acts impulsively, on instinct. He reaches up with his left hand and grabs hold of John's wrist, just above the back of the palm, which this whole time remains firmly on him. He grabs, and holds on to it the way he would have held onto the ledge of St. Bart's that day three years ago, if only it were a possibility then.

For such a simple gesture, it reeks of desperation and just slightly of panic. He squeezes until he can feel the bones of John's wrist harshly against those of his fingers, until John's pulse beats underneath his own so strongly that he fails to distinguish where one ends and the other begins. He tightens his grip until they share a heartbeat and the desperation starts to ebb away. All this takes place in complete silence; Sherlock's face is impassive, eyes still pointed at the cityscape beyond the ever-flowing river.

Then John shifts his hand, and for a fraction of a second Sherlock thinks he's about to pull away. The joined pulse is lost, and the dissonance of blood pumping through veins at different speeds is unsettling. But then John finishes the movement and turns his palm upwards, catching Sherlock's hand in his and exerting a reassuring pressure. He holds his hand and, together with it, all that is being transmitted through the grip.

"I'll stop by the flat tomorrow, yeah?"

Sherlock just nods and John gives his hand a final squeeze, taking away the desperation and the fear and the panic, as he lets go. His hand falls to his side and swings in time with his steps, and Sherlock imagines the anguish that has just lifted off his shoulder, seeping between John's fingers and onto the frozen ground, dissipating and breaking against crystals of frost.

As John walks back to his apartment, Sherlock looks to the brightest point in his field of vision. The Sun has breached the imaginary line at the end of the world, and the colourful dawn marks a new day. Sherlock thinks it's spectacular.

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**Thoughts? Well, see you tomorrow :)**


	4. Vindications of near-decades

**Author's note: Good morning everyone! Here is your daily dose of fiction :)**

**Just a few quick notes, first.**

**There is a point in this chapter when John's and Sherlock's age is somewhat important, so just to clarify, in the story Sherlock is 33 and John is 38. I arrived to the numbers by assuming Sherlock was 28 in the Study in Pink (seeing as the original cannon places him at app. that age in the Study in Scarlett), adding the 2 years untill the Fall, plus the three years of his absence, and then taking my estimate with the age difference between him and John. It's not really a major plot point, but I just wanted to point it out to avoid confusion.**

**Furthermore, a special thanks to _abutterflymind _for the emergency Brit-pick in the first chapter :)**

**And just to top it all off, a thank you is in order, to everyone who gave feedback on the prologue and first two chapters, your support means a lot :)**

**Enjoy your reading!**

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**Chapter 3: Vindications of near-decades and a discourse for strings**

John comes by the next day, alone. He inspects the swelling on Sherlock's lip and cheek, palpating it as if the same fingers that introduced it there in the first place, can somehow retract it. He still doesn't say sorry, though. Not yet. There is an explanation to be heard, first, before the final decision about whether he regrets his actions or not, is made.

When he sits down in his chair (it is still _his, _it will always be his) and looks at Sherlock expectantly, the other man doesn't waste any time. He starts speaking, picking up where he left off two nights before.

"I had to do it. It was imperative." It is the only prelude he gives, before plunging into the events of the past three years.

Sherlock tells John about Moriarty and the Final problem. He tells him the Solution, and then tells him everything else. It is a verbal account of three years – 9.1% of the total of Sherlock's life and 7.8% of John's – and it is exhausting. If their lives were a century, Sherlock would have to narrate events worth nearly a decade, and that is no small feat. He is not a storyteller – he is a reporter. Facts and elaborations unravel between punctuation marks, finding context and being justified by circumstances, in the space between two commas. It isn't a fairytale or a novel – it's a case file, a pathology report, precise and detailed, but containing only the important facts. Science isn't romanticised and truths are not embellished.

As the last years of the almost-life-decade draw to a close and the story finally narrows into an epilogue, a decision is made. Daylight has travelled several degrees and now slants at an angle much different than the one drawn when Sherlock started talking. A lot of time has passed. Hours, years.

"I had to do it." Three years round to an end, and it all comes back down to that first sentence.

John nods. There is just one more thing, one component missing from Sherlock's astonishingly meticulous account. It is the same thing that differentiates novels from reports, and case files from blog posts. It's the key feature of a good story and the antagonist of objectivity.

"Why?"

He can see Sherlock's face contort as he questions whether John has just been vacant this whole time that he spent explaining _exactly _why he had to do what he did. Why he had to jump and fall, and leave, and deconstruct his life in order to deconstruct something else, something dangerous. John reads his thoughts (no he doesn't, there's no such thing as mind-reading). Well, he reads his expression then, and elaborates.

"No, I mean, I know why, you just told me why." He struggles, irritated by the English language for not providing him with two, slightly different versions of the word _"why"_, one of which he could use to better explain his inquiry_. _"What I mean is – why did you_ have to_ do it?"

Has Anderson body-jacked John? Is he _not_ hearing the words coming out of Sherlock's mouth?

"_To save your life!"_

"Yes, I get that! But why did you have to save my life?"

Sherlock seems bewildered, but then it dawns on him. He realises _why_ and he knows what John wants to hear. He also realises it's the truth.

"Sentiment." There it is. For now, it's enough. It's more than enough. John nods, as if signalling to Sherlock that he gave the right answer. He seems to be sorting things out in his head, coming to terms with all he's just heard. In the end there is just one more thing left to be said.

"I'm sorry I punched you."

It's the beginning of forgiveness. He still doesn't know what exactly it is that he is forgiving Sherlock for. Maybe it's the pain caused by being left, or being left _behind. _Maybe it's for the nagging feelings that he had to attempt (and failed) to deal with in the wake of Sherlock's fake suicide. Perhaps it's the embarrassment he felt when he realized all he felt, no matter how real it was for him, was felt over a scam. The grief was real, but its cause was not, and that, for some elusive reason, made him feel like an idiot. Maybe it's a little bit of everything listed, but whatever it is, he knows he is starting to forgive it. He means what he says – he is sorry. His reaction was one of shock and fear – fear that if he gave in to the relief mounting up at that moment, it would crush him. Anger is easy, clean. Relief means hope, and hope can be taken away and substituted with pain, so very easily. John is a man with a high threshold for pain, but even he has a breaking point, and in the moment when Sherlock walked into that restaurant he feared that might just be it – if that hope proved to be a hoax, the threshold would have been breached. Anger is armour, while hope is vulnerability, which is precisely why a punch came more easily than a hug. But now there is no more need for the armour, and he slowly starts dismantling it. With that knowledge firmly in his mind, he gets up and turns to take his jacket.

Sherlock is still standing in the same spot as when he was speaking, and John thinks for a moment how ridiculous it is that a man who usually bounces around like a ricocheting bullet has the ability to stand stiller than a lamppost.

"Now that I have given my explanation, would you be interested in accompanying me on cases again?"

Oh, it's so appealing, but John knows things can't go back to how they were before, not exactly, at least. However, that doesn't mean they can't start over.

"To some, yes. When I can. My shifts at the surgery are only every other day. Just text me when you've got something and I'll see if I can, yeah? If I have a day off I can pop by, see what you're up to. Make sure you haven't starved. Something like the good old days, what do you think?" He tries to keep his tone light, but something about "the good old days" seems to sit heavily in the pit of his stomach.

"Yes, like the good old days." Sherlock's tone is completely bland. Colourless, odourless, tasteless. It only adds to John's apprehension when he asks his next question.

"And...I would like to bring Mary around once. For the two of you to meet. Properly this time, I mean. I don't really count that thing at the restaurant as an introduction."

Sherlock's gaze is impenetrable and John fears all the progress they've made could easy be annulled. He is just about to tell Sherlock to forget it, that they can meet at his and Mary's flat, or some neutral place, like a coffee shop, when something in Sherlock's eyes shifts.

"Of course. After all, it would be rather peculiar if the bride and the best man haven't met each other before the wedding. Bring her over whenever it suits the two of you best." John smiles at this, both out of relief and because it is so familiar, this rational, reasonable line of thought, so heart-warmingly Sherlock-like, that he has to smile at it.

_Sentiment_. The word is bothersome, like a pebble in his shoe. Sentiment is confusing and irrational and _uncontrollable_. Well, partly so, anyway, (Sherlock comes as close as one can to control of emotions – suppression). But even partly uncontrollable is too much – it brings too much confusion, too many variables that go unaccounted for. And Sherlock doesn't do _confusion_. Confusion doesn't become him, at all.

There is nothing precise about sentiment, nothing scientific, no way of forming operational variables, measurable and reliable. Stripped away is the possibility of stratification, categorization, systematic investigation. Emotions are a semi-homogenous compound, not separate enough to be studied independently from each other, but not blended enough to be a single, uniform mass. It is frustrating, this blob of feelings which mix and twirl and weave around each other, spilling over the edges of their boxes, polluting the contents of neighbouring containers. They are like colours on the surface of an oil spill, shapes in constant transfiguration.

Sentiment is a matter in eternal metamorphosis, a shape-shifter that makes Sherlock uncomfortable.

He wants things to be just like before. He wants John by his side, the two of them in a world of their own. That's why this whole engagement thing is so troubling. That's why, that's all. Isn't it?

The contents are spilling again, mixing and reacting, volatile and dangerous. _Friendship. Affection. Longing. Longing? Where did that come from?_

_Friendship + Affection = Attraction?_

_Attraction – types: Physical, Intellectual, Romantic_

No. He doesn't do _attraction_ and he most certainly doesn't indulge in anything even remotely related to the word _romantic_. He only ever knows the meaning of that word because the rest of the world is so intent to make it important, using it often as motif for murder, so just because it relates so closely to the Work, he must keep it stored somewhere in his mind. No, it's not simply attraction. Attraction is primal and insignificant, superficial. Fleeting, temporary and purely chemical. This is something deeper.

_Friendship + Affection...Love._

_Love – types: many, too many._

Oh, can't it just be attraction instead? Sherlock wishes it could. Attraction, in all its simple chemistry and transience, is much preferable over _love. _Attraction is a nuisance, but manageable and, eventually, curable, passing. Love is a much more complicated matter. Attraction is like a case of a bad cold – unpleasant and inconvenient, but demanding no specific treatment. Love is like a case of life-threatening pneumonia – potentially lethal. Which is precisely why Sherlock doesn't do things which involve either of the two.

But then again, he didn't use to do any sort of _sentiment_, either. Not before John. He never used to include emotions in anything regarding important matters, and precisely for this reason. Emotions confuse and complicate. Oh, Sherlock certainly likes complicated things, but mind-puzzles, elaborate crimes, things that can be solved by thinking and challenging his mind. This is a problem that cannot be solved using deduction. In fact, this might be a problem without a solution. No, that's incorrect. There most certainly _is_ a solution. Several, in fact. The catch lies in the fact that none of the solutions seems to be particularly satisfying.

_Problem: love_

_Solutions:?_

None of the available ones will do. And yet, one will have to. Which?

_Beige waistcoats. Does that mean that you'll do it then? Come to the wedding? _Of course he will come. How could he think he wouldn't?

Sherlock _did_ always have a self-destructive streak to him. Drugs. Life-threatening job. Injuries. He is no stranger to pain.

_It's your wedding, John. Do you really think I would miss it? (Do you really think I'll be able to stand it?) How could I not come?_

He wonders how this pain will compare to all others. John won't be there to stitch him up this time. Is there even a suture kit available for such wounds?

_Does that mean that you'll do it then? _Sherlock is no stranger to pain and self-destruction. He thrives on such things, and this is just another one of those things. Of course he'll do it.

Next time John visits, he brings Mary with him. After several (failed) attempts at a normal conversation, Sherlock decides to give up the effort and reaches for his violin. The instrument saves them all, assuming the role of chief-speaker in a conversation otherwise filled with references to past adventures (John's and Sherlock's) and inside jokes related to more recent events (John's and Mary's) – either way, one party is always left feeling redundant in all versions of discourse, save the one conducted in tunes and tempo. So they agree upon a fourth speaker, neutral ground (in absence of _common_ ground, neutral will have to do). Sherlock takes his place in front of the window and Mary sits in John's chair, with John standing next to it, one hand on the headrest.

Mary asks for Vivaldi. Sherlock plays Bach. John just shakes his head at this display of petulance (but is really petulance? What other explanation fits all the facts?), and sinks his eyes to the glass in his other hand, a rueful smile playing on his lips. The smile relays a blend of exasperated affection and barely covert disappointment – Sherlock changes the tune in the middle of a note, and plays Vivaldi's violin Concerto No. 1 in G minor. When he is done with that, he plays all Four Seasons; plays thorough the Year. He thaws and blooms and ripens and wilts and freezes again. He plays the annual revolution, and it grates against his fingers and his nerves, his very essence. He feels the friction of equine hair against strings – it's abrasive. He ends Autumn by repeating the first few measures of Winter. Wouldn't it be appropriate to play the whole thing backwards three times? Reverse the passing of time?

Mary looks as if she had just been treated to a private concert by the Symphony – genuinely in awe – and John's smile is no longer a rueful one. But as he smiles his real smile, his eyes are no longer directed towards the performer, the object of his joy being the amazed audience of one, sitting in the chair next to where he stands.

After John and Mary leave, Sherlock plays Winter over, and over, and over again, until he is as cold and as frozen as the frosty rosettes adorning the windows. He plays the wretched season until he is as unfeeling as frost-bitten fingers.

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**"Love is like a case of life-threatening pneumonia"? And people tell me I'm not a romantic :P Thanks for reading!**


	5. Inked inklings of enemies foreign

**Author's note: It's Saturday - double chapter day!**

**The reason why I'm uploading two is because these chapters are somewhat shorter than usual.**  
**As for the case that features in them - I don't know if something like this would be plausible in reality, but I'm not an evil mastermind (my Uni doesn't offer a course in "Genius Crimes"), so don't hold it against me if this seems like a little bit of a stretch. I guess I envoke poetic license with all of this :)**

**This is not a case fic, but the case is needed for the stage to be set for future developments, so here it is :)**

**Also, there's been some trouble when updating, the site sometimes doesn't show that the story has been updated. I've posted the new chapters at 8 am, and it still hasn't showed the update. So, if those of you who followe this story don't get an alert (or those who didn't follow but still wait for updates don't see it updated on the main page), just check for it a bit further back on the site, it will probably still show the previous update date, but the new chapters will be there.**

**Enjoy your reading! :)**

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**Chapter 4: Inked inklings of enemies foreign**

"Who is it, John?"

"Her Majesty."

"Oh hello, brother dear."

John is over at Baker Street, updating his blog and making sure Sherlock doesn't maim himself while trying to stitch up the wounds he earned in chase last night, when Mycroft graces them with his presence. They both snigger like mischievous school boys as the man in a three-piece suit with the obligatory umbrella steps into the flat. With impish sneers unwaveringly plastered on their faces, they patiently wait for the man to announce the reason for his visit.

"Yes...Very amusing." Mycroft's scrunched-up face is anything but amused. "If you are quite done, there is an important matter I wish to bring to your attention."

When Sherlock does nothing to accept the file that is being extended towards him, Mycroft turns to John, who – being the ever more reasonable one – takes it and sneaks a look at the contents. A profile is typed up in recognizable government-style letters, and gives information on one Charles Augustus Magnussen. The man is light-haired and blue-eyed, a stereotypical Scandinavian by appearance. Even on the dead of paper can't diminish the malevolence that radiates from his pale eyes. Danish, 50 years old, widower, no living family, wife and son both deceased, the son rather recently so. Intensely involved in the modern technologies industry. John can already tell he won't like this one, not one bit, (and it's not only because his own inability to properly type on the computer makes him feel like a hundred-year-old secretary). A tech-savvy villain. Marvellous.

Underneath the personal file there are crime scene photos and autopsy findings. The victim is a middle-aged man, not distinguishably notable in his looks. The most interesting part of the whole ordeal is the way the crime scene is staged, and the marks left on the body. The man is deposited on what seems to be a nest woven of electricity cables and wires, with a mass of microchips sprinkled around it. There's a trademark sign, as well as a classic bar code, tattooed on the back of the man's neck, on the patch of skin stretched over the C1 vertebra. There were two distinguishable puncture marks, red and burnt, on either side of the code. Taser marks. Electrocuted, then – the voltage of the shock must have been fatal, especially considering the proximity of the wounds to the brain stem. On the inside of his left forearm there is a strange tattoo of what seems to be a square filled with smaller squares in a random pattern.

"It's a QR code, short for Quick Response code" John jumps as Sherlock speaks directly in his ear, leaning over the doctor's shoulder and peering at the photos.

" It's a popular form of a two-dimensional bar code used for recording information about almost anything – industries across the spectrum use it to promote their goods and services. It can be used to store an image, a tune track or a programme. Anyone with a newer phone could scan it and access what is encoded."

"So what...this Magnussen character has been leaving messages – actual digital data – on his victims?"

"It would appear so, yes." Mycroft is still standing in the doorway, leaning gently on his umbrella and looking pointedly at Sherlock. "Will you take the case?"

"How recent is the data in the file?"

"_Very_ recent."

"And the crime scene photos?"

"The body was found a month ago."

"So, no fresh crime scene, then. Pity. Hm...no, not interested."

"Sherlock, I do have a potential international conflict to prevent in half an hour, and I would very much like to have a cup of tea before dealing with _that_ particular quandary. So could we just settle this, for the sake of ...ah..._brotherly affection_?" Mycroft ends his sentence in a voice equally irritated and threatening, with his most dangerous smile directed at the younger Holmes. "I ardently believe you will find the case to be most... _stimulating_."

Sherlock rolls his eyes in a way that John would think humanly impossible without risking pulling a muscle, and plops down in his chair with a flourish. "What was the information? In the bar code and QR code, what was it?"

"The barcode, when scanned, showed a number. We are assuming it is a clue as to the period of time Magnussen plans to remain in the shadows before producing his next victim. Not very original, I must admit, but luckily for us, undoubtedly practical." There is a pause and Sherlock narrows his eyes at his brother.

"And the QR code?"

"Everything. It contained the victim's whole life, condensed into files – data, pictures. Everything from his blood type to his favourite ice cream flavour at the age of 7 and a half. There was an especially interesting file titled 'Liability'. It was a list of all the man's fears, precious possessions and people he _cared_ about."

"Why? I mean, why would he give the police – give _you_ – all this information?" John looks to Mycroft, trying to make sense of all he's just heard. He gets his answer from Sherlock, though.

"To show that he can. Every other murderer today strives towards mystery, obscurity, burying of facts. Magnussen is showing them everything, because he _can_."

"But...how come it's still a mystery then? Why do they need you?"

"Because while showing them everything, he is, in fact, showing them _nothing_. Well, nothing of relevance, really. Nothing they couldn't have found out themselves. It's not _what_ the data is, that matters – it's the fact that he can access it at will. Still, he's not giving away anything of actual importance – no clues to how he chooses his victims or why he kills them – absolutely nothing that could prove to be useful in catching him...Oh." Sherlock turns to his brother with a look of ultimate triumph and ornery satisfaction gracing his face. "You don't know where he is, or how to find him." It's not a question, and Sherlock seems to revel in his statement exactly as much as Mycroft seems to despise having to admit its truthfulness. He breathes out through his nose and fixes Sherlock with a stare that seems to reflect their whole childhood (and adulthood) perfectly. _Behave, little brother, behave. _"When you are done gloating over my people's inaptness to do their job, you might be interested to hear what else there was among the data found."

"Oh?"

"A message. Intended for you. '_Mr. Holmes, you remind me of an advanced search engine – can you find me before I find you?'._I highly doubt that was intended for me."

"How _techie_ of him."

"You seem unconcerned."

"I don't see a point in seeming, or for that matter _being_, anything but unconcerned. It's an idle threat, one designed to attract my attention."

"And is it succeeding in fulfilling its task?"

"It might be."

"Good." Mycroft checks his watch and fixes his suit. "I will notify you when the next victim crops up."

"Have Lestrade work the case. And for heaven's sake, do use you _significant_ resources to ensure that that blabbering idiot Anderson _doesn't_. I know you can, so don't pretend it's not within your scope of influence."

Mycroft sighs a sigh that would bring shame to a soap-opera star, but concedes.

"Very well."

John can't help but be amused by this interaction – it could easily be a now-day version of a fight over Sherlock not telling Mummy Mycroft forgot to let the cat in last night, in exchange for Sherlock gaining unlimited access to Mycroft's secret candy stash in order to study mould patterns on different types of hard candy.

Mycroft takes his leave to go and tend to an impending war of some sort, and John turns to Sherlock, who seems to be rather invigorated by the new puzzle and the impromptu chance to rile up his brother.

"So...what do we do now?"

Fingers are stapled beneath a chin.

"We wait."

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**Quick note: QR codes are a real thing - they are on all the posters here, on tram/bus stations, shop windows, etc.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	6. Trespasses on unholy grounds

**Chapter 5: Trespasses on unholy grounds**

When Magnussen makes the next move and Sherlock is finally given a crime scene to investigate, he invites John along. He finds it fitting that their first case since his return should be something this splendid. That is why he is more than a little irked when John decides to bring a guest.

Mary doesn't cringe or faint when she sees the body – actually she takes in the crime scene and remains surprisingly calm and collected for someone whose job rarely involves anything worse than appalling grammar. Somehow, this only irks Sherlock further, but he finds irritation to be a much less troublesome sensation than the short pang of being impressed, that first emerges when he takes in her reaction. He decides it is best to treat her the way he treats other people who happen to be in the vicinity (except for John, naturally) – ignore her. It's not hard to do, seeing as she is required to stay behind the police tape, like the rest of the spectators drawn in by the macabre circus. Only John and Sherlock have the privilege of crossing the plastic-trimmed boundaries. The tape is like a sound -proof glass, drowning out those who exist beyond it.

He knows they can't go back to how they were before, but still, he is unusually bothered by the fact that there is now a third party intruding on the one thing that is decisively just his and John's. The crime scenes and the chases, the mysteries and the investigations – it's what they do, just the two of them. Despite the knowledge that he will have to accept Mary fully, accept the fact that, on the scale of things John deems important, she now ranks as high as Sherlock and definitely higher than Sherlock's Work, Sherlock can't suppress the feeling that her presence here and now is a crossing of some imaginary line, a twisted sort of sacrilege. But that's a useless thread to follow, so he banishes the thoughts and decides to make better use of his mental abilities.

Sherlock approaches the only person who deserves his attention at the moment, the one laid across the nest of wires and microchips scattered on the concrete parking lot. The victim is a young woman – early 20s according to the Yard; 22 years and 3 months according to Sherlock – and all the marks fit Magnussen's _modus operandi_ perfectly. There is a recognizable "T" encased in a circle, right above the bar code on the nape of her neck, just over the atlas, and a QR code on the inside of her arm, just below the crook of her elbow. Those will have to be scanned, in order to give Sherlock all he needs in order to work – the next count down and the victim's detailed CV. Sherlock predicts there is a high probability (89%, to be exact) that there will be another message for him. For once, it seems the Yard officials have been doing their jobs, because, as Sherlock walks over to Lestrade, who is standing right next to the police tape, the DI hands him a file.

"Here. It's what we got from the codes on her skin. We still can't make out why he chose this one. She has no connections to the previous victim and definitely no connections to Magnussen. Oh, and he left a message for you, again." Well, the probability _was_ high, wasn't it? "It said, '_Mr. Holmes, your firewall has been breached, you are exposed'_. What do you think it means?"

"I have several theories. Five, in fact."

"Well, care to share?"

"No."

"Thought so."

There is a prickling feeling in the back of Sherlock's mind, and he feels something's different this time. He turns to Lestrade again. "Is there anything else you found?"

"Ah, yes...Yes, there is. Here." Lestrade points to a plastic evidence bag being labelled, as they speak, by a young crime scene technician. Sherlock snags it from her hands and proceeds to open the bag. The technician looks mortified at such blatant mishandling of evidence, but Lestrade just gives a tired wave and dismisses her.

"It's odd, this one. I don't see how it is connected to everything else" Lestrade quips up.

"That's because you are an idiot."

"Yes, thank you, but what I meant was that I don't see how it fits the general MO. It's not very high-tech. It's not really _anything-tech_. It just doesn't fit in with the rest of the scene."

John is still examining the body parts assorted on the plastic cover a few metres away and Sherlock casts him a glance as he unfolds what appears to be a piece of clothing, from the evidence bag. He is too absorbed in his investigation to pay any attention to Mary, who is standing behind him on the other side of the polyester divide.

As he spreads the bloodied jumper, old and rather tacky (some sort of 80s fashion thing), Mary goes ghostly white.

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**See you tomorrow! :)**


	7. Unintentional killings

**Author's note:No idle chit-chat this morning, simply a thank you for the constant support :)**

**Enjoy your reading! :)**

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**Chapter 6: Unintentional killings and a pyromaniac's regret**

It is one of those days when it's just Sherlock and John. Mary's away on a field trip with her class, and John has a day off from surgery. They are working on a minor case revolving around what seems to be a murder-suicide, but the fact that the alleged murderer seems to be dead longer than his alleged victim (and yet, the signs on the bodies indicate strongly that the murderer committed suicide and that the other victim fell by his hand), forces the Yard to admit, for the umpteenth time, that they are completely out at sea about what happened. Both members of the crime solving duo know the case is just an interlude, a respite before there is more information on Magnussen. Ever since the last victim, the man has been keeping a low profile. The leads on the case are few, and insufficient for the Yard to make any significant progress. Thankfully, Sherlock needs much less than the Yard to keep a case alive, and John knows he's been working on it, continuously, with the dedication he's only presented once before. _Then. _When a game was being played. No, not _a _game – _the_ Game. However, the clues are rather scarce, and in order to save himself from his own mind in instances when leads wind up in dead ends, and boredom creeps too close for comfort, Sherlock decides to take on some smaller cases, on the side. They are never spectacular, and mostly solved within a day or two. Nothing really worthy of the great Sherlock Holmes. Still, it is a welcomed idyll that keeps Sherlock from tearing down the flat (and saves John the trouble of witnessing it), and the two men enjoy the dynamics which is almost like the one from three years ago.

Sherlock is alive and virile and perpetually irritated by human stupidity – same old, same old. John is laughing and listening and giving suggestions. It's easy and light (well, if one disregards the rather gruel crime scene photos and the fact that there is more than one dead person somewhere in the midst of this).

Lost in the details of the case they burn through the time allotted to a single day, and soon the date on John's laptop screen ups by one. It is at that time, which is just turning from really late to really early, when Sherlock's signature "_Oh_!" of understanding pierces the night and the clicks of his thumbs against phone keys start to play the coda to their investigation.

"I must admit, this case was rather enjoyable. Not particularly ingenious, but enjoyable nonetheless."

"Well, I'm glad you find two people being brutally killed enjoyable." There is no real reprimand in John's comment; it is more of a default response to Sherlock's usual idiosyncratic reaction to all things morbid. Those are the roles they play – Sherlock says something impertinent and John gets to play Jiminy Cricket. They leave the evidence (_borrowed_, not stolen), case files and crime scene photographs scattered around in a whimsical mosaic, and sit next to each other on the sofa.

"Well, when I say enjoyable... I do believe part of the charm was contributed by the fact that I had my light-conducting blogger by my side to take note of my genius. You wouldn't believe how dull it is when I have no one to point that out. It took toll on much of the appeal in the last three years."

John laughs and rolls his eyes at Sherlock's teasing, yet semi-serious tone and words. He doesn't find the statement hard to believe. Not in the least.

"Yeah, well, whose fault is that?" he responds. It is said jokingly, but the bitter undertone shines through and seems to put a damper on the otherwise-enjoyable air between them. "Sorry...sorry, I'm just tired, that's all. That was extraordinary, Sherlock, really. As always. Quite extraordinary."

Maybe it's the reiteration of the first praise John has ever directed at him (in a cab, five years ago) that does it. Maybe it's the bitterness that underlies his question about blame and faults, the one that precedes the praise. Maybe it's the need to take that bitterness away. Maybe it's the fact that all solutions to a maddening problem seem to be unsatisfying. All but one. Maybe it's this journey, this exile out of a life that was good, and all the consequences that are now forever clinging onto it, onto _them_. Maybe it's the need to bring all of this to a closure as monumental as the start – the need for another fall. Maybe it's all of that. Either way, the forces all amount and accrue beyond the carrying capacity, and the moment becomes a watershed.

The paradigm shifts.

It doesn't taste of _tea_ and _something uniquely them_. In fact, it doesn't taste much like anything, except maybe a little bit like stale breath. It isn't gentle – it's a single gesture trying to make up for eons of time not lost, but sacrificed, and it holds all the desperation and anxiety that has accumulated in that period. It's not unification or a dance – there are no partners here. It's breaking down, a fight featuring two opposed participants. It's a sort of paroxysmal passion that is composed of dark-coloured sentiments, destructive and detrimental – fear, loss, resentment, jealousy – all in shades of burgundy and muddy crimson. It's not love – it's need, mutual, but unwelcomed. For an indefinite amount of time the colours are overriding rational thought (after all, a paroxysm is not something one can control) and they are both in this struggle of a kiss. But then the spasm eases and John pulls away, bewildered.

"What was that, Sherlock?!"

There is nothing easy or light about this, no casual companionship left in the flat. There is only voices, one loud and the other one restrained, but no less charged. The easygoing atmosphere of the day is gone, as if they have driven from a tame country road straight to and off a cliff. Even the light of the lamp is heavy, adding pressure where there is already plenty.

"I believe it was what people call a kiss, John."

"No, no...Don't! Do not get smart with me! Not now! Why did you kiss me?"

"For the usual reason one would do so."

"The usual...? And what would that be?"

"Sentiment."

"Sentiment?"

"Yes, John, sentiment."

"What kind of sentiment, then?"

"..."

"Sherlock. _What _sentiment?"

"What do you think, John? Surely you can deduce it for yourself. After all, you do hold yourself up to a certain standard in this whole _emotion department._ In fact, I think it was established on many accounts that it is one of the areas in which your expertise manages to supersede that of my own! So, how is it that you are incapable of identifying the emotion at hand? It is indeed odd, seeing as it is one you seem to be experiencing a lot, lately. It is the one emotion I have repeatedly been warned about, and one that I have long believed myself to be insured against - _love_."

"Love? You think this is love, Sherlock? Oh, no...no. _This – _this isn't love. _Love_ is selfless. _Love _is doing what's best for someone else. This is you catering to your whims, completely indifferent to my wishes _or_ the position you are putting me in by doing so!"

"Your wishes? If your response is anything to go by, I would say I interpreted your wishes rather well. My actions did not seem unwelcomed, just then."

"For God's sake, Sherlock, I am _engaged_! To be married!"

"Yes, and yet, you kissed me back – and not half-heartedly either, if I may point out."

"You may _not_! Jesus, Sherlock... Love? Are you sure you even understand the meaning of the word?"

The words are out, and before John can catch them, pull them back and stomp on them so they never reach Sherlock, they fall on the carpet between them with the thud of a dead body. He expects Sherlock's eyes to grow icy, impenetrable and frigid, the way they did when he started shouting. He can deal with ice. Ice is good. Ice cools down. Ice is the appropriate punishment for his thoughtlessness. The ice never comes – what happens instead, is infinitely worse.

Sherlock doesn't flinch. He just stands there, very still, but not like an ice statue. Oh no, not nearly like an ice statue. The first word that comes to John's mind when he looks at him isn't _ice_, it is _blazing_. Sherlock is blazing. His eyes are not cold slates – they are fire, a butane flame, blue and burning at 1,430 ˚C. He isn't a stone monument, solid and protected. He is a showcase of rapid oxidation fuelled by hurt. In that moment, John is genuinely afraid that if he reached out and touched him, the contact would incinerate him. Sherlock's next words almost achieve the same effect.

"I assure you that I do."

They are standing around a corpse, one born of words and confusion and mistakes. It's another crime scene. Cause of death – stab wounds, the fatal result of repeating a single word, (love – such a gentle word), in a tone reserved for the coarsest of curses; wielding it as if it were a knife. It's a murder-suicide. They are standing around a body and, this time, they are the ones who put it there.

One of the perpetrators flees the scene, while the other has nowhere to run to.

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**Just a quick message to those readers who were happy to finally see Mary in a more substantial role - no worries, I didn't forget her ;)**

**See you tomorrow!**


	8. Antebellum alliances

**Author's note: Good morning! Today, once again, is a double-chapter day. For the sake of continuity, chapters 9 and 10 will also be uploaded together (tomorrow), then chapter 11 goes up by itself on Wednesday, and Thursday will mark the final day, when chapter 12 and the Epilogue will be uploaded together. **

**Thank you to everyone who left a review and/or followed/favourited this story. You put a smile on my face.**

**So, I believe it's time for new chapters to be read!**

**Enjoy your reading! :)**

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**Chapter 7:****Antebellum alliances of reflecting surfaces **

"I need to tell you something, Sherlock, and then I need you to do something."

Straight to the point, then, no pleasantries or idle chit-chat. Good. He hates idle chit-chat, so tedious. Mary starts talking as soon as he sits down, slightly awkward and out of place in the brightly decorated classroom, with his dark coat and Byronian appearance. Class just ended and he can hear the bustling of school children in the hallways, incoherent clamour belonging to another, more care-free world.

There are posters on the wall and some books on the shelves. He scans them instantly – _good God, _what do they teach children these days? No wonder everyone is an idiot.

He turns his attention back to Mary, who is perching at the edge of her desk, looking academic with her ink-stained fingers (the fountain pen she uses to grade papers is malfunctioning, obviously), and reading glasses. Despite his physically inferior position, he fixes her with a gaze and suddenly it is easy to imagine him towering over her.

"And why should I feel obliged to listen to you?"

Mary neither flinches nor shrinks back under his scrutiny, answering right away, as if she has been expecting this line of inquiry.

"Because despite our differences, we have one thing in common."

"I highly doubt that, but fine, let us pursue that line of thought... what would this _common interest_ be, pray tell?"

"John. We both love John."

Sherlock's face is just about to morph into his signature scowl as he mouths the beginning of his sarcastic retort, when Mary beats him to it.

"Please, Sherlock, don't insult my intelligence, no matter how little you may think of it. Will you honestly try to deny that you love him? Do you really need me to make my case for it? Ok, let us do it your way then. Evidence, proof, facts, that's what you appreciate, yes? "

Sherlock closes his mouth and points a steely, slightly petulant and definitely challenging gaze at her. It's a stare that usually intimidates everyone, sans a few who know him the best. Mary is completely unruffled by his attempt at intimidation, and starts to unfurl her, as she calls it, _case_ to him. As she lays bare Sherlock's own heart in from of him, systematically cataloguing its components as they fall under the neon lights of the classroom, landing on class preps and quiz tests, Sherlock can't help but admit to himself that he has gravely underestimated Mary. She is much more observant than he gives her credit for.

"You value his opinion, although he mostly tells you things you already know. Sometimes you do things you don't really consider necessary or while-worthy, only to appease him. You don't do that for anyone else."

"It is simply a matter of convenience, not love. John is practical to have around and endlessly more efficient when appeased, as opposed to agitated. I don't see how – " Once again, he is cut off.

"I haven't finished, Sherlock." She is using her teacher voice now. Sherlock leans back and pouts, but continues listening.

"Yes, I am aware that you are capable of rationalising almost every argument I present you with, that is related to your interaction with John regarding cases and crime scenes. But that doesn't mean my arguments are invalid. Also, there are some things even you can't rationalize."

"Like _what_?"

"Like the look on your face when you realised I wasn't just another temporary girlfriend. Like the way you said "Congratulations" instead of throwing a temper tantrum when he told you about the wedding. Also, the way you look at him when you think no one is paying attention, when we come to visit, over in 221B, and we stay until late and you play the violin and deduce fictional movie characters just to make him laugh, although you would never admit that to be the true reason."

"And how do I look at him in those instances? Do enlighten me, _please_."

She smiles another sad smile at him, and he feels angry that she is so unaffected by his venomous sarcasm.

"The same way I look at him."

His retort falters somewhere between his vocal cords and the opening of his throat. He expected an overly-romanticised and utterly inaccurate comparison, something sickly sweet and awfully pathetic. Instead, he gets hit with the truth. He has seen the way Mary looks at John, (he has also seen the way John looks at Mary, but he pushes that thought away). He has seen her expression and is startled to find that he has failed to prevent that expression from mirroring on his own face. And if Mary noticed it, she being ordinary and all, then he most certainly _did_ fail. He considers giving in, ending Mary's presentation before it gets dangerous. But he is proud and stubborn and somewhat of a masochist, so instead of relenting, he puts on his best mask of unimpressed superiority and taunts her.

"I am still not convinced. Your evidence is highly circumstantial. Is there anything else you might submit, or is that all you have in defence of your case?"

"Of course, it's not all."

She pauses, only for a fraction of a moment, obviously bracing herself for something.

"There is, of course, the kiss."

Oh. One look at Sherlock's face prompts Mary to elaborate her statement a bit, before moving on.

"Oh, no he didn't tell me. He would never expose you like that. But I could tell, John is an open book, you know."

He does. He was the one reading him for two years before she came along. John is Sherlock's favourite piece of literature – endless, rich, comfortingly familiar and refreshingly surprising, all at once.

"And lastly, you _did_ jump off a building to save him. That's love, Sherlock, if I ever witnessed any."

By the end of her speech Mary is looking at him with something soft in her eyes. Odd. She should be mad, possibly resentful and betrayed, but she looks none of that. In fact, Sherlock finds it rather difficult to pin-point the exact quality of the aura surrounding John's fiancée. There is something resembling defeat set deep in her slightly slumped shoulders, and her face is tired, exhausted even. Her hands lay calmly in her lap – no fidgeting of any sort – but instead of signalling peace of mind, it only serves to further promote the wistfully resigned impression she gives off. Resignation, yes, but something else.

Something contrasting, something strong that is nestling in her eyes, a firmness taking residence in the place between gentle eyelashes. What is it, what could...Ah. Determination.

It is the moment when the microscope picture finally sharpens at last and whatever is on the glass slide underneath comes into perfect focus.

Resignation, defeat and determination. Oh yes, Mary needs to tell him something, indeed.


	9. We are masters of all things interim

**Chapter 8: ****We are masters of all things interim, so I play my adagio accolades**

John finds Sherlock in the mortuary at Bart's. Standing over a dead body in his coat he looks like an apparition from a gothic novel. Honestly, only Sherlock would think of dealing with corpses and bodily fluids in a coat that, John is pretty sure, is worth more than most of John's possessions put together. One can't deny, though, that it is rather an imposing look.

Sherlock's back is turned to the door as he towers over his newest test subject. John is sure that the detective is very well aware of his presence, but when Sherlock makes no move to acknowledge it, John moves to the opposite side of the room and stands across the autopsy table, only to realise they are now standing with yet another corpse between them.

The other man greets him in a way that John would, under any other circumstances, find endearingly typical.

"The wound seems to be made by something very narrow-tipped. Also, there are undefined black traces embedded in the tissue – ink, maybe. It is possible the man was scratched by a quill or a fountain pen previous to his death."

"Those must have been some killer words then." John cringes at how out of place his joke seems right there and then. Not because of the dead body that lies on the table in front of them, but because of the one that was left lying in the flat the last time they spoke – some killer words, indeed. When Sherlock just continues to inspect the wound, John decides it's gone on long enough.

"Sherlock, what I said...about you not understanding. I – "

"It was said in a fit of surprise and anger. There is no need to apologize for it. I am ready to simply consider it a residue of previous misconceptions about my capacity to experience actual human emotions, brought to life by emotional turmoil that was present in the given instance. So, as previously stated, there is no need to apologize."

"There really is." He is just about to voice the rest of his thoughts, ones that run somewhere along the line of _'It was cruel and utterly inconsiderate. And not to mention, you know, completely untrue. So, yeah, I think I really ought to apologize for it'_, when Sherlock puts an end to his apology, again. The apology he didn't even get to start to articulate, again.

"Still. I'd rather you didn't."

"And why is that?"

"Inconsequential."

"Sherlock."

"John."

Trying and failing to stare the other man into telling him _why_ exactly he considers the reasons for not accepting a very deserved apology to be inconsequential, John decides this conversation calls for wise choice of battles and surrenders that particular one.

"Fine."

He waits for a retort, or an observation, or _anything_, really. The silence stretches. It is not the comfortable, cotton silence. This one is cold, sharp, like barbed wire, piercing soft flesh. It's a jagged quiet, filled with matters that demand to be dealt with. Once again, he takes the matters in his own hands, (no matter how sharp and cutting those matters may be).

"You do understand why this can't be right? You and me, like this? More than friends, I mean?"

Sherlock finally gives up his attempts at investigating what seems to be a nasty looking wound on the dead man's sternum and straightens. When his eyes meet John's, John can very easily sympathise with the man on the slab, feeling as if he is being cut and sliced, dissected by cold, sharp steel.

"Really John, there is little in this world that I find to be incomprehensible, and the reasons inhibiting our relationship's progress onto anything more than close friendship certainly do not fall into that category. So, to answer your rather redundant question – yes, I do understand. But do humour my curiosity and tell me – which reasons do you see as the most relevant ones?"

The ice is back, but it doesn't serve to assuage the singed marks left by the blazing a few days ago. Instead it aggravates them, adding frost bite to burn. Insult to injury. But it is warranted, and John is aware of that, so he draws a breath and steadies himself.

"Well, for one, I am engaged to a woman I love very much. Isn't that reason enough?"

He expects a scowl or a derisive comment. What he doesn't expect is the look of surprise that colours Sherlock's features. It throws him off more than Sherlock's outburst earlier.

"You look surprised...why? Why is it surprising that I love Mary?"

Sherlock shakes his head, regaining his composure.

"No, that's not the reason. I was just expecting you to open with your usual argument."

"My usual...? I don't have a usual... There's nothing _usual_ about any of this, Sherlock. Just so I know, for future reference that is, _what_ exactly is my usual argument?"

"That you're not gay."

"Oh...that."

"Yes. It has been stipulated so many times that _you_, John Hamish Watson, are not gay, that I do believe even the news vendor at Piccadilly Station knows that by now. He might not know that his son is stealing money from him to support his gambling habit, but he most certainly knows that you are not gay." The ice thaws a bit and is replaced by some sort of acerbity, but one not as biting as the previously present chill.

"Yes, yes, I get the gist, thank you." Another deep breath is drawn, the smell of formaldehyde and sanitizing fluid flowing down to John's lungs and how appropriate it is, too, that his conversation with Sherlock, _this_ conversation, should take place in a morgue. Speaking of love in a room that smells like death.

"Well, one of the reasons why I say it so much is because it's true – I'm not." Breath – formaldehyde in, life out.

"I don't know. It's not that simple, Sherlock. You were the most important person in my life for quite a bit of time, someone I cared about, _a lot_, and the different shades of _caring_ tend to blur together sometimes, you know? And then you were gone, and that didn't help matters, not in the least.  
But I don't think a man has to be gay to be just a bit in love with you."

What's that now? Superb – more maddening options, more ambiguity and more confusion. As if Sherlock needed any more confusion in this, already overly-complicated, field of human interaction.

"I think everyone who meets you falls a little bit in love with you, in one way or another, at first. Then you open your mouth, and after that they either fall in deeper or can't run away fast enough. Well, as you can see, I didn't run, so deduce from it what you will. But I love Mary and I can't just throw that away – throw _her_ away – on a whim. That's not how it works. Still, that doesn't mean it's either her or you, or at least I hope it doesn't. It just means that what I have with her and what I have with you can't be the same thing. But I do want you in my life. I don't even know anymore what other way there is than having you in it.

I don't know...you are like this force of nature – or a natural disaster – intense and extreme. I mean, you asked me once how I would describe you. Well, I don't think there are enough words in the Oxford dictionary to fully describe you. But I know that the one word I wouldn't use is "moderate". You never do anything in moderation, Sherlock, and nothing about you can be done in moderation, either. You are something one either loves or hates, and there's no in-between. You're like...Marmite." Well, that was anticlimactic...not really a way to end a monologue, now is it?

Sherlock looks slightly amused by this (in John's opinion) rather lame conclusion to John's speech. For several moments he just stands there, looking at the man on the other side of the autopsy table. He knows this won't be easy, any of it. It won't change anything in regard to feelings and wishes, but he has a choice, for now, at least. He can keep John, in whatever capacity and form their current situation will permit, or he can give him up. For however long this may hold, he knows which choice to make.

John could swear Sherlock stands stiller than the corpse in front of him. Even though he can't see it (no such thing as mind-reading, remember?), he knows there are options and probabilities flashing in front of Sherlock's eyes as he calculates and computes, deciding carefully upon his next words. At last, he reaches for a scalpel and cuts into the skin of the cadaver that lies between them.

"I never cared much for Marmite."

Truce. Let's call it truce.

It takes John a moment to realise the meaning of the words. Ok then, truce. Might as well run with it.

"Really? I always had you pegged as a Marmite kind of bloke."

"No. Mycroft adored it, though."

John laughs, if only to acknowledge the effort invested in Sherlock's attempt at making the air a little easier to breath despite the smell of demise lingering everywhere. When he speaks, the words come naturally.

"Well...I always loved Marmite" he says. Sherlock might not be the one for metaphors and figurative language, but John knows he understands.

The bitter aftertaste of the last few days isn't really washed away, but rather masked by the saltiness of Marmite and the smell of embalming fluid. It's a strange combination, and not necessarily a pleasant one, but it's what they have and they will have to make do with it. It doesn't feel like a resolution, but they both recognize the need to call this truce before the damage becomes irreparable.

* * *

"Would you mind playing something, Sherlock?"

It's a few days after Sherlock's and John's peace treaty in the morgue, and the two of them, and Mary, are sitting in front of the fire in Baker Street, tending to their delicate, newborn armistice. It isn't quite comfortable yet, this truce of theirs, but it is there – vernal, fragile, and teetering on the narrow area where three lines intersect and three lives meet, balancing somewhat clumsily in the point of equilibrium. So when Mary asks for a performance, John feels a rush of anguish for their infant peace. One wrong step is enough for the equilibrium to be lost, for their stumbling amity to lose its footing and topple over the brink and into the abyss. A reluctant fiddler and one misplaced stab of the violin bow may just be its undoing.

Thus, he is immensely relieved (and slightly embarrassed for doubting his...Sherlock) when their host (when did he become a guest in 221B?) lifts his instrument and positions it under his chin.

"What is on the repertoire tonight? Bach?" There is no malice in Mary's voice as she asks. It sounds more as if she is teasing the detective by referring to some private joke of theirs. Sherlock seems to sense this – even appreciate it, to some extent – seeing as he smiles the smallest of smiles, signalling his willingness to partake in the jive.

"Not quite. In fact, I have a composition of my own I need to run through once more, before deciding whether to keep it or delete it. Yes, I think that one will do." His voice is its usual amalgam of cool indifference, slight pompousness, and careful inner contemplation of matters known only to him, yet there is an odd sort of warmth seeping into the mixture. It is not kind of warmth that speaks of intimacy or affection. Rather it relays respect and recognition of equality.

John observes this exchange, perplexed and slightly dazed by it, but decides not to prod at it. Small miracles, so few and far in between, fall into the category of things he prefers to take at face value, if only for a short while. Just as he decides to be silently grateful for what can be seen as the first rite of passage for their renewed friendship being successfully tackled, Sherlock starts playing.

With every stroke, every upward advance of the bow and every slow pull that creates harmonious traction, the equilibrium seems to hold steadier. The tune is simple enough, yet intricately elegant and captivating. It is poised and profound. Sherlock plays, and it's more than an interpretation of ant-like notes of a five-line row of ink. It's not simply a composition– it's a tribute. Adagio accolades.

It is a testimonial that seems to be borrowing heavily on Vivaldi.

After the tune dissolves in the last decrescendo, which holds a strange sort of pensiveness, there is no glittering amazement like the first time, but then again, this performance wasn't intended as a showcase of musical prowess. It was a compliment being paid, a token of respect, and possibly gratitude (why? Why gratitude?).

"Thank you, Sherlock, that was lovely" Mary looks touched and just a little bit something else. John can't really tell what.

"Yes...yes, it was. Brilliant." He looks at Sherlock and smiles – affection, praise, and thanks. Love.

For a moment there is a chink in Sherlock's armour and he looks slightly pained by all that John smiles at him (pained? Why pained?), but he soon gets a hold of himself, clears his throat and goes to put his violin away.

"Hm...Yes, I agree. I think there won't be a need for me to delete it, after all."

When John and Mary get up to leave, Sherlock announces that he will walk with them part of the way, seeing as Lestrade has summoned him to a crime scene somewhere in the general direction of their apartment, anyway. They make quite a trio.

John and Mary don't make it home that evening, and Sherlock never sees that crime scene.

* * *

**A cliffhanger? Again? I know, positively Moffatian of me...Oh, well.**

**Fun fact: Part of my inspiration for John's speech in the morgue came from a line Irene Adler says in ASiB, after John says he's not gay and she answers "Well, I am. Look at us both". I think that line portraits perfectly that falling in love with Sherlock this isn't that much a matter of sexuality and sexual orientation, as it is of him being this brilliant person, who seems to have some sort of gravity which draws certain people in.**

**Furthermore, all the things that might feel like loose ends in this chapter (like Sherlock's refusal of the apology, etc.) are left like that on purpose, so stay tuned to see why. Also, I felt it was necessary for Sherlock to be the one to offer the "truce", considering everything that took place in chapter 6. I hope my feeling was right. If it feels as if Sherlock's POV is being neglected, that will be amended as we move forward.**

**See you tomorrow! :)**


	10. Choice is an illusion

**Author's note: Good morning! Well, this chapter actually adresses the cliff-hanger I left you with in the previous one (as opposed to the last 2 times I did that). So...here it is.**

**Enjoy your reading :)**

* * *

**Chapter 9: Choice is an illusion, impediment not an option, and tenderness just hypothetical**

The three buildings stand on the grounds of an abandoned research complex on the outskirts of the city. With their damp concrete walls and rooms stripped of all evidence of human presence, they are melancholy incarnated. There is an air of something positively post-apocalyptic about them – that feeling that it is the loneliest place on the planet – despite the fact that the rush of traffic can easily be heard and the nearest train platform is only a few kilometres away. It is a picture in monochrome, just the endless gray of concrete, sky, dirty puddles of water and weathered metal doors. It leaves the impression of lifelessness – and what a deceiving impression that is, for life is, in fact, present among the cinereal walls.

If viewed through infra-red spectacles, the complex would reveal four brightly lit figures, all reds and yellows and oranges among the damp ashes. Three of them, one in each building – left, middle, and right – are there against their will – captives, hostages. The fourth man, also in the middle building, but far away from the other person also inhabiting it, is there by his own volition.

The complex seems cold, but that is a mirage, too. There is heat packed in rooms that foster two of the figures, the ones in the left and the right building. Their rooms and lined with fire in neat packages and snaking wires. Fire put on hold, only to be used when time comes to re-ignite the ashes that build this place. Explosives. Walls lined with fire - _firewalls_.

Three men and a woman. Three natives and a foreigner. A detective (middle building), a soldier-doctor (left building), a teacher (right building) and a villain (middle building). In each room there are three screens, each with a camera on top. It could easily be a very strange conference call. Everyone gets to see and hear everybody else. Communication is impeccable, no static in the void. The resolution on the screens is high, allowing a perfect view of every detail. Every painful detail.

It is not a conference call. It isn't even a ransom call. It's not a call at all. It is a battle, though a rather civilised one. _High-tech_.

In the middle building, in a room with three monitors and a desk, Sherlock Holmes stares at two small objects. Remote controllers. The middle screen shows a man with cruel blue eyes and a foreign accent. In a room with monitors and remote controllers, Sherlock Holmes is being offered a choice. At the moment there is silence coating all the rooms, all the screens. Moments before there was shouting, swearing (from the room in the left building) and cool cynicism (middle building). Now, there is silence and expectation. Some explanations have already been given, ones pertaining to methods of capture and such, but those were just a prelude to the punch-line. The choice, which really isn't a choice at all. (You arrived _in medias res_)

"You get to choose, Mr. Holmes", says Magnussen, "You can either press the left button, and kill Dr. Watson, or you can press the right in which case Miss Morstan gets killed."

A beat passes, a moment in which everyone is silent. But it's just a moment and it passes quickly. The next instant there is a cacophony of voices. Some in Sherlock's head, running all the possible outcomes, others shouting from the monitors in front of him. Again, the left monitor.

"Sherlock, listen to me! Save Mary. Do you hear me? Save her, don't you dare do otherwise. I will never be able to forgive you if you do. I lived with that pain once, for three years, I can't do it again –"

John is yelling and trashing in his chair, trying to get Sherlock to meet his eyes.

"Sherlock."

Mary is still, and very, very quiet, so when she says his name with such conviction, Sherlock averts his eyes from the buttons in front of him, from this twisted Sophie's choice he has been offered (not that he would know this reference), and looks at her. Well, not _at her,_ really, but the camera that perches on top of the monitor that depicts her. He takes in her image - strapped to a chair, small and fragile. So very mortal. He knows John looks the same. He avoids looking at the other monitor the way one would avoid the black plague.

Instead he focuses on the one in the middle. Magnussen's face is perfectly composed. Still, there is something manic in his cutting blue eyes. Blue. All of the eyes in this story are blue. It's just one colour. Just one colour which makes for a whole spectrum.

"And what happens if I should choose not to press either? You kill me?"

"Oh no, Mr. Holmes, no. You most certainly get to live. In fact, that is the key feature of my plan."

"I see. Interesting. So what is preventing me from not optioning for either of the buttons?"

"Oh, that is not an option. Someone has to die today. It is your choice whether it is going to be one person, or two."

"What do you mean?"

"You see, if you choose not to press either of the buttons, I will shoot Miss Morstan, leaving you and Dr. Watson with the knowledge that _you_ could have saved her, but chose not to. I do wonder how successfully your partnership would continue under the burden of that particular resentment. So, if you leave the killing to me, you get to walk away with your dear doctor and the awareness that you could have granted his last wish, but instead decided to bless him with a life full of pain and grief, _again_, just for the sake of your own selfishness. And as the good doctor himself said, I doubt he would ever forgive you for that, which means that even though he will get to live, you most certainly will _not _get to be a part of that life.

Tell me, Mr. Holmes, do you think it would hurt to know the person you care for the most can't stand the sight of you because all you do is remind them of the pain, the loss, the _failure_?"

"As much as I enjoy your endless litanies, you haven't answered my question _fully_. You said that it is up to me whether _two_ people die today. Explain."

Magnussen looks pleased, looks at Sherlock the way a teacher would at a very clever pupil, one he knows is smarter than him and is bound to achieve more than he ever could. He looks at him with amusement and hate. It's a look of malice, but there is something else there... something infinitely more frightening than the malice or the hate. Triumph. He looks at Sherlock the way a chess player looks at a cornered king – like someone who knows they have won.

"Ah, yes. Such attention to detail. Well, in case you _do_ decide upon a button, which I strongly advise you to do, the casualty you choose will be joined by another."

"Who?"

"_Me._"

Another beat. Wrong...this doesn't make sense. Does it?

"I...I don't understand."

"Do you not, really? Let me explain then. If you choose a button, I will walk into the room hosting the person you chose to kill, ensuring that when they meet their demise, I join them on the journey.  
If, however, you opt to keep your hands clean, I survive and disappear, only to come back when you least expect me to. And when I do come back, I will pay a visit to Dr. Watson again, only this time I won't give you a choice. I will kill him, but not before you are forced to witness him suffering a great deal of pain. Physical pain, that is. One to match the emotional one you will present him with in case you choose to sacrifice Miss Morstan, one way or another.

Thus, you can kill Dr. Watson and spare him the pain – do the selfless thing, the _loving_ thing – or you can kill Miss Morstan and have your precious companion safe and sound, although estranged. Either way, whoever remains will be granted safety, seeing as I will be dead. Or, you can choose to do the cowardly thing and wash your hands clean of the matter, in which case you again get to see your friend live his life and deny you any access to it, but in that case he will never be safe.

So you see, Mr. Holmes, there is no point in killing you. I don't need to kill you. I have _defeated_ you. I've given you a question with multiple-choice answers. And whichever answer you choose – you will choose wrong."

There it is. Triumph. The composure has melted away from the foreigner's face, only to give way to a sinister smile of a deranged man. It isn't a smile at all – it is a grimace, a gargoyle's grin which holds not mirth.

"Oh, genius. Splendid, indeed. Very elaborate, I must admit. Just one question – _why_ exactly would I believe that you would so willingly sacrifice your own life?"

Derision, sarcasm – best defence is a strong offence – appear unaffected, amused even. The man might have defeated him, but Sherlock doesn't intend to acknowledge it.

"Because I am a man with nothing to lose. If death is just another means to my end, then so be it. And I _will_ achieve my end goal, Mr. Holmes, rest assured." Something in the way he says this makes Sherlock very, very sure the words are genuine. It's not a threat – it's a fact, indisputable. The words spoken are ones of a man with a single aim, one that takes precedence over everything, even survival.

"I will give you a few moments to make your decision."

With that, the room shown on the middle screen is emptied, and Sherlock's attention is once again drawn to the remaining two.

"Sherlock!"

"Sherlock – "

Two sets of eyes piercing through him, one bewildered – passionate, pleading – and the other calm – _you know whom to choose, you know what to do._

He does.

John is all desperation and struggle. He is imploring Sherlock with his eyes, his body, his voice.

"You said you understood love. This is your chance, Sherlock! Prove it! Prove it to me, that you understand love. Love is selfless, remember? Convince me that you understand...Please_._"

He understands. He does. Five years ago Sherlock wouldn't have understood John's actions, nor the words he has just spoken to him. Self-sacrifice is illogical, it defies the primal, basic need for self-preservation. Five years ago Sherlock wouldn't have understood the urge which drove those words out of John's mouth – "_Save her, or I will never be able to forgive you. I lived with that pain once, I can't do it again."_ – because they're are positively drenched with self-destructive sentiment.

But this isn't five years ago. Now, he has lived with John for two years and without him for another three. Now, he understands.

Oh, how clever. Indeed, he is defeated. Oh, Magnussen is much smarter than Moriarty ever was, because Moriarty has given him a simple choice, an _obvious_ choice, one which included him somehow getting to keep John. But this, this is brilliant. Because, whichever choice he makes, John is lost to him.

It is brilliant. It is devastating. It is so dreadfully perfect.

He knows what he is supposed to do. He loves John, and love is selfless. Maybe he doesn't love him enough, because in the end, he loves himself more and he is not selfless. He is so very, very selfish. He cannot afford to lose him, and yet he will. He inevitably will.

The door of the empty room swings open to reveal Magnussen standing with his arms spread a bit to his sides, palms turned upwards in a stance indicating a question.

"Have you decided, Mr. Holmes?"

He knows what he must do. He can already see all the tell-tale signs. The tensing of upper-body muscles, further tightening of fist, a breath being sucked in and released through the nose – last (futile) attempt at maintaining self-control and calming down -, lips pressed into a harder line, upper and lower teeth grating lightly against each other. They are signs of a decision being made. He observed this once already, on John, not so long ago. Now he observes it on himself and he wants to break. Break down. And just as it happened the first time, the time he saw it on John, the time John punched him, so recently – no, so _long, long_ ago, a lifetime – words previously spoken breach into his mind, this time in his own voice.

"_Don't snivel, Mrs. Hudson. It'll do nothing to impede the flight of a bullet. What a tender world that would be._"

He knows what he has to do.

"Yes."

He can't break down and he can't break, because that would serve no one. It would do nothing to impede the explosive's belligerent heat. It would do nothing to impede the imminent breaking of hearts.

"Which room should I walk into, then?"

So, he doesn't break, although he wants to. He doesn't let himself cry or scream or even flinch, because it wouldn't help anyone or anything. He doesn't try to put out the fire with tears. Instead, he presses the button, because each of the offered scenarios comes with a bullet made of broken pieces of John, sharp and piercing, and because crying will do nothing to impede the flight of that bullet, headed straight to his core. Because if it could, oh, what a tender world that would be.

What a tender world, indeed.


	11. In distorted echoes

**Chapter 10: In distorted echoes, our binding conjunction is lost**

Three buildings form a complex, their exits facing the empty car park in the middle. Two buildings are intact. The third one is burning, collapsing. There are two figures coming out of the intact buildings, one out of each. The fire-fighters, paramedics and the police are just coming around the corner. They put out the fire, they take statements from two people who stand amidst the destruction, watching their world as it disintegrates, dissolves in the smell of chemical accelerants and extinguishing foam.

The medics check the survivors for injuries, wrapping shockingly orange shock blankets around their shoulders. Nothing more is required, they are alright. Just in shock. It is to be expected.

They walk away without a scratch. Well, without visible ones, at least. Their skin is intact, there are no bruises or cuts to tend to. No physical ones, that is, because on the inside they are both just one great wound, open, exposed and aching. They walk away from the flashing lights and the bustle of emergency services. The shock blankets lay forgotten somewhere in the back of the medics' bus or a police car. Two figures walk away. It is vaguely familiar, this scene. Some years ago, similar two figures walked away from another crime scene full of flashing lights, after discarding of a similar orange blanket. That day they walked away together. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.

Now, they walk away from the lights and they walk away from each other.

The fire-fighters pull of remains of two bodies from the collapsed building. A man and a woman.

Neither of the two figures is there to see it. Sherlock Holmes. John Watson. There is no "and" between them anymore.

* * *

**This is NOT the end. There are still things to come, remember?**

**Well, there are explanations and answers to be given, and an ending to be made happy, so stay tuned :)**

**(Not-so-Fun-Fact: My original idea was to end the story here, in which case there would be no chapter with Mary's and Sherlock's conversation. I couldn't. I tried and failed miserably. So, as previously stated, this most certainly isn't the end of the story.)**

**See you tomorrow! :)**


	12. My body lies somewhere away

**Author's note: Good morning! Finally, some explanations are given...**

**Enjoy your reading! :)**

* * *

**Chapter 11: My body lies somewhere away, but my allegiances always with you**

John gets abducted by Mycroft on a weekly basis. He never says a word to the man. They sit in dead silence for half an hour, every time. Dead silence full of dead people – Mary, John before Mary, John before the Fall, John with Sherlock, Sherlock with John – all dead.

He gets texts. He doesn't need to check the screen to know who it is. He changes his number. The texts keep on coming. Why isn't he surprised?

He is mourning, that much is obvious. What is not obvious is that he is mourning more than one person. He is mourning Mary. He is mourning Sherlock, too. Is it possible to mourn the living? Apparently, it is.

When he fails to answer the texts and Mycroft bores of his blank stares during their meetings, the letters start arriving. Thick, rich paper, expensive – looking, official and slightly over-the-top. The name and address written in an elegant handwriting, always the same, professional. Mycroft. He disposes of them instantly – from the mailbox straight into the bin.

One day he reaches into his mailbox and the letter feels different somehow – _softer_. It's the same envelope as usual, but there is something off with the contents. Against his better judgment, he rips off the top. Inside, there is a paper napkin with a logo. On it, a black frenzy of scribbles. The handwriting is as familiar as the scars on the hand that wrote them. Not Mycroft, then. The napkin is from _Angelo's_. The writing is Sherlock's. Was it his on all the other letters, too?

He shreds the napkin before throwing it away, just in case he might be tempted to go back and read it at one point or another.

He stops keeping count of the mail. He cards through it every time, he must if he wishes to separate the necessary – the bills and notices – from the pain repeatedly delivered in posh envelopes.

The day he opens the mailbox and finds two bills – electricity and mobile company – there are three other letters awaiting him. Two distinctive ones, designated immediately for the recycle bin (honestly, what a waste of paper), and a third one. It isn't a bill; the envelope is plain, white. The address is written in another achingly familiar handwriting. One that was used to leave funny notes on sticky-posts. One that wrote grocery shopping lists. One that shouldn't, _couldn't_ be on a letter, not any more. Never again.

Mary. He sees her face in the loops and swirls of vowels and consonants of his own name. This cannot be. Mary is dead, and the dead do not have the luxury of written correspondence.

His hands don't shake. His intermittent tremor doesn't resurface. Once again, he is in the middle of a battlefield. This time, the war front is in his mind, with raging battles grating like dust storms against his synapses. He rips the envelope open.

_Dear John,_

_I wish the day you have to read this never comes. I wish all that will lead to you reading it never has to happen. However, even as I am writing this, I know my wishes won't be fulfilled._

_This isn't fair, this letter. None of this is fair, but the letter specifically, because when you read it I will be dead, leaving you robbed of a chance to yell at me, to react and aim your anger at the one person who truly deserves it – me. Not only that, but I will rob you of your memories, too. You won't be able to mourn me properly, but you won't be able not to mourn me at all, because that's not who you are. You don't just get over people. For all this, I am so, so sorry. So inexpressibly sorry. But you have to know this._

_Oh God, I'm stalling, I know I am. But I just don't know how to tell you this. I am so afraid you will hate me. I don't want to ruin the image you have of me. I love that image so much. I love my life with you so much. This is so hard. You must be really bewildered by now, so I better get to the point._

_I worked with Magnussen. Or better say, I worked for him. From the beginning, that is. That's how I met you. More precisely, that's _why_ I met you. He spotted Sherlock once, during that time when he was dismantling Moriarty's organisation. He was fascinated by him, in awe of him. Until Sherlock made a mistake, that is. I don't know the details, nor the exact circumstances of what happened, but long story short, Magnussen's son got harmed because of Sherlock. He died. He was collateral damage, I believe. I don't even know if Sherlock was directly involved, but he was somehow responsible. When he found out, Magnussen became preoccupied with Sherlock, with hurting him. His son was the only person he every cared about, for some reason. Such a cliché, isn't it? Revenge, blood lust spurred on by loss. I bet Sherlock would find it boring. It is a really unoriginal story in the end. Somehow I don't think you will find that relevant or comforting._

_As for my own involvement in the story – it wasn't voluntary. He owned me, Magnussen. I can't really tell you why. I could tell you parts of it, but I fear that it would ruin whatever little credit I might have with you after you finish reading this letter, so as someone you once loved I am begging you to just take my word for it – I would have never done any of this if I wasn't forced to. All I can tell you is that doing what Magnussen required of me was the only means I had of keeping someone incredibly important to me safe. And even if Magnussen dies, they are still in peril, so I can't tell you more. I also can't put it down in a letter, I can afford a written trace – all I ever did would be in vain if the wrong people stumbled upon it. I couldn't even tell Sherlock the whole story, so he doesn't really know anything more than you. At first he refused to listen further unless I told him everything, but as soon as I explained that your life was at risk, he stopped asking questions, though I could tell the unsolved mystery was killing him. Still, he would rather have you safe, than have definite answers about all of this. But I know he has his guesses, and I suppose he decided those will have to be enough. I'm pretty sure he would cringe at my use of the word "guesses", though. _

_His brother, Mycroft, agreed to ensure the person I was protecting stayed safe once I'm gone, but don't expect him to be able to give you answers. Secrecy is crucial here. I guess I did well, then, confiding in Mycroft. The man is secrecy incarnated. Just...take my word for it John, please. It was absolutely necessary. But I'm still so sorry for everything._

_So, when Magnussen found out more about Sherlock as a part of his revenge-planning, he found out about you. The one person who meant the most to Sherlock. His Liability. It was perfect. He could strike back equally hard. Tit-for-tat. He decided to hurt Sherlock the way Sherlock hurt him – by forcing him to lose the one person he loved the most. Oh, and he does love you John, surely you can see it. Everyone else can. I can't tell how he loves you, and sometimes I wonder if even Sherlock knows exactly how. But that doesn't matter, really, the how. I mean it does, but not right now. You know what I mean._

_He knew Sherlock would eventually go back to his old life, to you, and he needed a way to be close to him when he did. That's where I come in. I bet you already have it figured out, don't you? It's not all that refined and complicated, and you picked up many of Sherlock's tricks, so it wouldn't surprise me if everything I'm about to write is completely redundant, but here it goes, anyway._

_My role was to get close to you, to become important enough to you so that you wouldn't want to lose me. I was supposed to become your weakness, John. Get you to love me, to be willing to sacrifice yourself for me. And to ensure you would never forgive Sherlock if he chose you over me, if you lost me because of him. Crude, isn't it? But efficient. So horribly efficient._

_And here is the catch, love. I was supposed to make you love me, but I wasn't supposed to love you back, to care at all. I would get you to love me, Magnussen would go through with his plan the way he did, the same script and all, except my death would be staged. But I wasn't good enough. I fell in love with you, I wanted to save you. You have to believe me that I love you. Who wouldn't? _

_I became a liability, and Magnussen found out. He can do that, you know, read people, see what they hold most dear, and then use it to crush them. I knew then that when he killed me as a part of his plan, it would be for real. The jumper at the crime scene you took me to, belonged to the person I am protecting, and its appearance was a message for me. A punishment for my failure and insurance that I won't come between him and his revenge. I could only stand back and watch his plan unfurl. I couldn't stop it, so I had to make sure that when it happened you came out of it alive and safe._

_I told Sherlock, made a deal with him, one that would protect you and give you another chance at happiness, at life. Magnussen was going to kill me either way. The only way to keep you safe was to make him believe that by forcing Sherlock to do it he was hurting Sherlock, taking you away from him. I don't know the details of the plan, but whatever happens I know Sherlock has to be the one to kill me. It is the only was to be sure you will be safe. Magnussen won't go after you if that's how things play out. He won't need to; he will have achieved his goal. _

_By the time you get this letter, I know Sherlock will already have done it._

_He did for you, John. Please, forgive him, if there is even anything to be forgiven. He was ready to lose you, just to save you. Please don't let that happen. You told me once how much it hurt when you lost him for three years – don't put him though such pain._

_I gave this letter to his brother, Mycroft, for safe-keeping. He will post it when he thinks it is appropriate. I couldn't give it to Sherlock, seeing as I am not sure he would send it, at all. He might try to spare you the pain of it. I can't have that. You need to read this._

_I am so sorry, John. I know I don't have the right to ask, but please don't hate me. And please try to be happy again. With Sherlock._

_I love you. I really do. That's one of the things that got us into this mess._

_Yours, _

_Mary_

Mary...what have you done?

An image appears, replacing the image of the letter that lies before him.

The morgue, the peace treaty being signed over a cadaver.

"_...there is no need to apologize."_

"_There really is."_

"_Still. I'd rather you didn't."_

"_And why is that?"_

"_Inconsequential."_

No, not inconsequential, not at all. _Why? Don't apologize, because soon you will have grounds for your behaviour and your words. Don't apologize, because soon I will have to hurt you as badly as you did me. Don't apologize, because I'm the one who is sorry._ That's what he meant.

Another image flashes, and the morgue is substituted by a space much warmer, filled with life.

Their last night in 221B – Mary's and Sherlock's private joke about Bach (the miracle he chose not to question at the time...would it have made a difference if he did?), what he saw on Mary's face (sadness, deep and inconsolable sadness, he recognizes it now) after the violin piece. Oh...the violin piece – a tribute, yes, but maybe also a eulogy. Paying of last respects to an ally (not an adversary) who is soon to be lost, sacrificed (oh..._gratitude_..._ thank you for the sacrifice, thank you for saving him_); a hymn of an alliance formed over a single shared interest – their _common ground_.

It is John's turn for a sudden invasion of his own previously-spoken words, into his mental space.

"_You said you understood love. This is your chance, Sherlock! Prove it! Prove it to me that you understand love. Love is selfless, remember? Convince me that you understand...Please._"

Oh, God.

* * *

**I do, in fact, have Mary's story all figured out, but I wanted to leave things somewhat vague. The reason for this is because there were points I wanted proven, and this served that purpose well. Also, I think it makes the whole thing more emotionally conflicting for John, because he doesn't really get a clean break. He doesn't get a proper justification, and that means that he cannot simply forgive her (or decide not to do so) and go on feeling either love or hate, plain and simple. Nothing is that tidy and simple. So, I personally prefer it this way, but if someone has the irresistible urge to know the story, they can PM me and I will tell them. Or, in case there are people without an account who wish to know, they can leave a comment requesting it and I will put it in the author's note after the Epilogue. :)**

**How many cliffs have I left you hanging off? I lost count... That's why tomorrow you will get some solid ground under your feet as the story draws to a close :)**


	13. We stand now where we stood then

**Author's note: Here we are, finally... the last chapter and the epilogue. To everyone who left any sort of feedback – it meant a lot. Special thanks to _Isayan,_ for being so immensely invested in this story and supporting it (and me) every step of the way. Furthermore, once again, a thank you to _abutterflymind_ for all the kind words, and Brit-picks that helped make this story more accurate. And, last but not least, a big thank you to everyone who stuck with this story till the end, I hope you enjoyed it. :)**

* * *

**Chapter 12: We stand now where we stood then, but it's a new age and we are new men**

John is getting sick of reunions. Maybe that's because his always take place in the wake of tragic events. What happened to happy reunions – ones with Uni mates or even old childhood friends? The reunions that took place over pints, in pubs, or coffee cups, on park benches? The easy ones, filled with old stories, reminiscing, the good-ol'-times tales and laughter?

Standing in front of the black door of his former Baker Street residence, the ex-army doctor smiles a wry half-smile at his thoughts. Pints and coffee? Is that really what he is longing for?

He raises his hand – his steady hand – in preparations for a knock. There is still no tremor quaking through his hand – still seeing the battlefield, then. He wonders if the battlefield is where he lives now. It seems as if the only things occupying his mind, as of late, are endless debates he keeps on having with himself. So, it doesn't come as a surprise when he stays in the same position, one hand raised towards the door, for an obscenely long time. He looks like a mime in freeze-frame, an actor who forgot his cue and lines, desperately waiting for the prompter to whisper what his next move should be. When did he become so indecisive?

Before he has the time to decide, and lay his tremor-less hand against the black wood, the door is flung open.

"John."

Of course. _Of course_ Sherlock would know his intentions even before John is sure of what they are. He almost laughs. Almost. Because, really, in any other setting, under different circumstances it would be simply comical – Sherlock, waiting behind the door. John is certain that's the case, seeing as the alternative would be that Sherlock just happened to decide to take a walk outside, in his pyjamas and dressing gown, at the exact moment John decided to pay him a visit. A bit too much of a coincidence, wouldn't you agree?

"Would you like to come in?" There is a slight crease forming between Sherlock's brows as he steps aside, gesturing with his hand towards the foyer. John realises he has been standing mute, and with one hand still in an awkward half-raised position, for the entire duration of his internal rant.

"Um, yes, yes, I would. Thanks."

As they step in, John gathers his wits a bit, and takes a better look at his former flatmate.

"Why are you still in your pyjamas?" It is not unusual for Sherlock to forgo the regular attire one would usually wear during the day if there are no cases or if he simply doesn't feel like it. Hell, it's not unusual for him to simply not wear _anything_, except for a sheet, to Buckingham palace, so John is slightly befuddled by his own question. Sherlock, on the other hand, seems completely unfazed, not missing a beat before answering.

"Seeing as I do not have a case at the moment, I wasn't particularly disposed to going through the trouble of dressing myself today, only to have to engage in the reversed process in the evening in order to take a shower. Pyjamas and a gown are a lot easier to discard in such situations, as they happen to lack buttons which do take a tedious amount of time to do or undo.

I could easily change if the need arises, but for the time being, I do not see how that would be anything but a waste of time."

Right. Only Sherlock can make a monologue about _pyjamas_ sound like a university lecture.

"So you were just...what? Going for a walk, in your sleepwear? Is that it?"

"Of course not, John, don't be obtuse. I saw you through the flat window as you arrived and when you proceeded to stand in front of our door in a ridiculous pose, for what seemed like an indefinite amount of time, I decided to end your miseries and simply open the door. Besides, the gown would probably get stained by the residual rainwater on the pavement, and silk is rather precarious to wash."

Sherlock says all this with a straight face, looking down at John with an unreadable (and what seems to be slightly annoyed) face usually reserved for the times when he has to explain the _obvious_ things to ordinary people. For heaven's sake, there's Sherlock, being slightly annoyed at him for being, as he put it, obtuse, and complaining about the _impracticality of silk_. It is all so familiar, so _normal_, that after Sherlock finishes his soliloquy, John can't help himself.

He bursts into laughter.

It is that sort of laughter that rumbles through his whole body, ricocheting between his ribs like a pin ball, crowding the air out of his lungs and forcing his heart to beat in time with the bellowing voice.

He doubles over, leaning against the wall in front of the stairs, and laughs. The image bares slight similarity to a time when there were two bodies leaning against the same wall, laughing at how ridiculous it all was. Now, there is only John against the wall, laughing his soul out.

He laughs because if someone told him five years ago what his life would look like now, he would have thought it a joke. He laughs at the joke that became reality. It's not a particularly good joke, but he laughs, all the same. He laughs because it is ridiculous. All of it is utterly, thoroughly ridiculous. Sherlock in his pyjamas and John with his freeze-frame knocking stance. Real people with arch-enemies and storybook villains who come to life. Straight men and kissing flatmates. Dead fiancées and evil masterminds with a knack for vengeance. He laughs because it is all so ridiculous and tragic, but the tragic calls for crying and he is done crying, and in this moment he chooses to ignore it. So, he laughs.

He laughs until his pectorals protest and his throat is sore and the skin on his face feels stretched from pulling. He laughs until his eyes start to water and tears start streaming down his face. He laughs until there isn't a thing left in him, not a thought, not a word, not a feeling. He laughs until he is empty and he can laugh no more.

When he comes off his high (or his low – it's just a matter of perspective), John looks up, only to find Sherlock doing a perfect impression of a deer caught in headlights. His eyes are wide and his posture stiff – completely thrown off balance, frozen and unsure how to proceed. And Sherlock doesn't do well with "unsure". It would be funny, if only it weren't as far from humorous as it gets.

With a sigh, John straightens and pushes himself off the wall.

"I'm sorry", he says, "I just... I don't know..."

"It is perfectly alright", Sherlock interrupts him, snapping out of his shocked reverie. "Some people react to extreme grief with manifestations which appear to be completely inappropriate, considering the fact that they are usually indicators of emotional states opposite to sadness. It is not unheard of for people to laugh at funerals, for example."

John shakes his head with a small smile, the one reserved for the rare instances when it is Sherlock, instead of him, who manages to misunderstand something.

"No, no... That's not what I meant. I'm not sorry for laughing – God knows I needed it. I mean, for everything. For ignoring you, for not letting you explain – again. For what you had to do. I'm sorry."

"Oh."

"Yeah...oh."

"I must admit this was not the reaction I was expecting."

"You were _expecting_ a reaction? After everything, after I made it clear we were done?" Even as the words leave his mouth, John flinches at his unfortunate phrasing and the emotion that flits behind Sherlock's eyes._ Think before you speak, Watson! _"That's not what I meant. Or not how I meant it. It is just...you never tried to seek me out, and we both knew it wasn't like I was going to come to you, so I'm just surprised you expected a reaction, that's all."

"Yes, I did." Sherlock's voice is strained and clipped, and the emotion replaced by something infinitely colder. "Despite the fact that London is a large and thickly-populated city, the probability of an accidental meeting was not all that low. So, keeping that in mind, I made a list of possible reactions and behaviours you might exhibit _when_, and not _if_, we met again."

"Of course you did." It's a sigh, said as John rubs a hand down his face and looks to the side.

"Well, if this wasn't one of your predicted scenarios, what was, then?"

"There were several, but the most probable ones all included a punch."

John can't help but smirk at this. Sherlock knows him.

"You still can, if you want to."

He looks back at the detective, confusion colouring his face as he meets Sherlock's gaze.

"Can what?"

"Punch me." It is said with such indifference and resignation that John is still reeling when Sherlock continues rambling in his characteristic manner. "Only, please do try to avoid my teeth. Finding a decent dentist in London these days is an absolute nightmare. Truly, all the incompetent people who are awarded a medical degree of any kind. Just look at -"

"I don't want to punch you."

Sherlock's rant comes to an abrupt end, and he fixes his eyes on John's. For a moment he appears to be at loss for words, and what comes out of his mouth next is a single word.

"Why?"

"Why?" John repeats, disbelief obvious in the way his voice slopes upwards at the end.

"Yes, why? Why don't you want to punch me?" Again, there is annoyance in Sherlock's voice as he paces the length of the floor. It is the kind that surfaces when things aren't going according to plan, when he is forced to repeat himself and re-evaluate his conclusions. "Don't make me repeat myself, John. You punched me last time and it seemed to help whatever inner turmoil was bothering you. So _why_ do you not want to punch me now?"

John listens to this onslaught of words, mouth slightly agape, and answers the first thing that comes to his mind.

"Because I'm not angry."

Sherlock's pacing halts to a stop. For a moment they just look at each other, and in the silence that settles on the first floor of 221B Baker Street, John realises it is true. He isn't angry.

He is still slightly incredulous. He is definitely sad. He is resentful, though not of Sherlock. He is worried. He is secretly, and very cautiously, hopeful. He is many things, but angry doesn't seem to be one of them.

It comes as somewhat of a surprise, but then again, by now he is used to surprises – almost immune. This is not the same as the previous time. That anger was a defence, a selfish reaction designed to protect him from his own emotions and from future pain. That anger is selfish, but love is selfless, by his own definition, so they cannot co-exist, at least not right now.

"I'm not angry and I... I believe you." John says, and once again finds his words unreservedly true.

"What you said, I mean - that you understand love. I believe you. Love is selfless, yeah? I gather that you know that, now."

He can see the exact moment Sherlock catches up.

"You read her letter." It's a statement, not a question.

"I did."

He could swear he hears a mutter that sounds awfully like "bloody Mycroft", before Sherlock continues.

"I couldn't tell you." It's not an apology, nor an excuse. It's simply a fact – the sky is blue, water is transparent, _I couldn't tell you_. It's that simple.

"I know." There is no apology needed. Not for this. Not for love.

Sherlock's unease doesn't cease – something is amiss, still.

"Why aren't you angry?" This time there is no annoyance in Sherlock's voice. It's not the demanding _why_ of the previous questions – it's just curiosity, and a bit of puzzlement.

"I honestly don't know. I just know I'm not. At least, not with you. I'm angry with Mary, I hate her a little bit, too. But I love her, too. It's ridiculous, but I do. I hate Magnuessen. I know he is dead and my hate can't reach him, but I hate him anyway. They are the ones who have wronged me. They are the ones who deserve my anger, because being angry at them is not selfish – it is justified. But being angry at you, that isn't justified. It would be selfish, because I wouldn't really be angry with you, I would be directing my anger towards them at you, just because they are gone and I can't lash out at them, and you are so conveniently here. But that's selfish." He stops, draws a breath. "And love isn't selfish, is it? So, I'm not angry with you. I was, before the letter, but not now. There's no reason for me to be, you did what I asked of you – you've proven to me that you understand love."

"I killed Mary."

"No, Magnussen killed Mary, he just used your hand. You – you saved my life. Again."

"I did the selfish thing, I chose you. I chose _myself_ over you." Sherlock is fighting him on this, fighting himself, as well, and the hope that is threatening to make itself known.

"But you didn't, did you? Because you knew you would lose me, either way. You could have just told me about Mary and hope for the best, hope for Magnussen to fail or make a mistake so you could catch him before he got to me, and then I would be safe and heartbroken, but yours, because Mary would be out of the picture. But you didn't. You chose to help her, to save me at any cost. That's not selfish, Sherlock. That's love."

"Sentiment."

John smiles at the word that has so many times been the source of confusion for the Consulting Detective.

"Yes, sentiment."

Finally, Sherlock relaxes. It isn't a very noticeable change, just a slight falling of shoulders and softening of features. He understands. There are still wounds that have to heal and ghosts that have to be appeased, put to rest. It is a process and nothing is exactly right yet. But it's not wrong either. It's an in-between. The space between the cataclysm and the rebirth. It's a start, because John is not angry and Sherlock understands.

"Dinner?" It is five years ago and they are standing at their first crime scene, smiling at each other and wondering where this might lead.

"Starving." It's now, and they are so much more than they were five years ago. They are standing in the aftermath, looking and _hoping_ at each other and wondering where this will lead.


	14. Epilogue:Compatibility in a tender world

**Epilogue: Compatibility in a tender world**

He can already see all the tell-tale signs. The quickening of breath, the dilatation of pupils, zygomatic capillaries becoming more visible – blushing –, a film of sweat coating the palms of their hands, the pulse quickening beneath the skin, visible on the neck. They are the signs of a choice being made. This time, there are no unannounced sentences reverberating in his head. There is only one word, written in bold letters, translated into music notation and atomic numbers of chemical elements, proclaimed in his own voice.

_**John**_

Time has passed and ghosts have been laid to rest. They move out of the in-between and things are more right every day. It's not simple and it is definitely not easy. There is still a lot of death plaguing memories and that complicates things. They are still Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, their characters still greatly theirs, but now they are more. The change was always inevitable, but that doesn't mean they are altered beyond recognition. Sherlock is still brilliant and still an arse, more than half of the time. He is still what can best be described as _cerebral_ on many occasions. John is still relentless in his mission to save Sherlock from self-destruction, and he still blogs. They still fight over the tea and the milk and the experiments. John is still hurt, at times, by Sherlock's lack of empathy, and Sherlock is still confused by John's occasional sentimentality.

However, Sherlock tries harder to take in consideration things beside forensic evidence (even though it is so _tedious_ to do so), and John is better at recognizing what constitutes as attempts of showcasing emotion when it comes to the detective.

They are still Sherlock and John, but they are more.

So, when they kiss for the second time in five years (sometime shortly after 5 in the morning, before the Sun has risen, and the sky is just starting to change colour), it is nothing like the first time. It is more.

This time it is not anger and desperation. It isn't fear and loss and begging. Oh, there is passion, but it's not the bruising kind. Love is selfless, love shouldn't leave bruises. It does, sometimes, but never purposefully. So, there is passion, but more importantly there is love. It's the Sun's triumph in the East and it's a hand on a shoulder, on a bench, months ago (a lifetime ago). It's creation and a dance and a partnership. It's not a seizure or an involuntary urge. No, this time, it's a choice, mutual and welcomed, and _that_ is so much more.

Maybe this time it even tastes like _tea_ and _something uniquely them_. Maybe it still doesn't, but that's fine, too. It's all fine.

This time it reflects _them_ perfectly. It is what they are – it's compatibility.

It might not be a tender world out there, not in the least, but in that moment that is unimportant. The world beyond the door can be as callous as it pleases, because in the given instance it is completely irrelevant. The focus has shifted and in it stands a world that exists between the old, abused brick walls, in which tears can impede bullets and laughter can impede destruction. It is fleeting and ephemeral, lasting only as long as there is shared breath (not stale, not this time), but oh, what a tender world it is just then.

What a tender world, indeed.

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**Thank you for reading :)**


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